


Obsydian

by Tiofrean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John, Baskerville's Laboratory, Body Modification, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Human Experimentation, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Scars, Secret Laboratory Experiments, Smut, Vulnerable Sherlock, because I say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock went missing, then he appeared again. Broken on body and mind. John is there to help him as always... But can they make it out right? </p><p>Please, read the note on the first chapter. It explains a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> So... I had this idea of writing something with a very badly scarred Sherlock, and John helping him to deal with this.  
> I'm sorry for every medical fact that can be out-of-order here. I also apologize for not giving enough details on the nature of experiments, technology, etc. I started from the point of view that Baskerville's was a big and a secret lab. In there they had already developed the technique of multiplying organs (or rather creating them) from cells of human body.  
> My knowledge on the topics is purely wikipedial, so feel free to righten me anytime. The fact of developing full organs from cells is yet to be made by humans, but this is fiction, here everything's possible.
> 
> Warnings apply to the whole of the fic, and I will give them now, so you are not interrupted by them later on, and you can just go on with the story. Warnings that apply: secret experiments and their descriptions, mutilations of human flesh and their descriptions, as well as scars and wounds. Loads of angst. Probably some sex scene between two consenting adult males (yup, I don't write anything that doesn't have gay sex inside), hurt/comfort, and on the bright side – BAMF!John. 
> 
> Okay, if something nasty happens in the matter of triggers I will give a small warning in the beginning of each chapter, but only if it hasn't appeared in the tags already mentioned. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!

**1\. Like a fairy tale**

  
John had a very bad day. He had been quarreling with almost every patient in the hospital, his computer caught some nasty virus and the roof in his old bedroom started to leak in the night. It was a very bad day. Well, a bad year, but this day had been the worst since Sherlock's disappearance.

 

It had been shortly after their last case together that it all happened. Sherlock went into the city to meet someone he wanted to ask about something connected with cigarettes and their stubs. He went into the town and disappeared, leaving John clueless and grieving. He tried everything, from asking Mycroft's help to trying to find the detective on his own, but all his efforts were in vain. The only thing left for the ex-army doctor was to sit in 221B Baker Street and wait for any news.

 

He heard a doorbell ringing and got to his feet. He moved through the corridor and down the stairs, passing by Mrs. Hudson, looking at her briefly. The good woman was acting, like if nothing happened, like if Sherlock hadn't been swallowed by the ground. But John, a trained observer that he was now, could easily see the invisible weight resting on her shoulders that made her whole posture hunch a little, the sadly gray tinge in her eyes that was occasionally replaced by a bright flash of hope every time, when she heard the doorbell. She still believed that Sherlock will come back one day, that he hadn't been missing for almost a year. Stupid, hopeful heart.

 

John cringed. He hadn't been better himself. His mind was constantly oscillating around the great detective and his whereabouts, his heart making him sink into a manic search on more than one occasion. Stupid heart. The traitor.  
  
He reached the door and o0pened it, looking at the street before him. He looked to the left, then to the right, but there was nobody in the sight. Suddenly he felt a gentle, insistent tug at the leg of his trousers. He looked down just to discover that a child was standing at his doormat. Little boy, five years old at best, terribly dirty and with disheveled hair that was getting into his eyes.

 

“Hello there” John greeted, kneeling on one knee to level himself with the kid.  
“Good morning, mister” the boy squeaked, looking at John with big, brown eyes. He looked exactly like a puppy John had seen in the pet shop last week.

“What are you doing here?” The doctor asked in a soft voice. The kid was obviously neglected by his parents, wherever they were.  
“I lost my way home, sir” he lowered his eyes and started to dig his small fingers into the button holes in his jacket.  
“Maybe I could help you? What's your name?” He asked, fully taking in the miserable sight before him. The child was wearing rather dirty jeans and a loose jacket, the t-shirt he had underneath all soiled and rumpled.  
  
“Martin” another squeak. John smiled.  
“I'm John” he offered his hand to the boy, who took it and shook with admirable strength. “Listen, Martin, do you know where are your parents?”  
“At home” the kid said and looked up at John. “Will you help me?”  
“Of course” John smiled wider. “Do you remember on what street do you live?” Martin only shook his head 'no' and lowered his gaze again.   
  
“Right. I need to know where is your home, so I can get you there... Is there something interesting near your house?” John asked hopefully and waited for an answer. The kid was adorable in his search, eyes jumping from one place to another and the tongue sticking out to lick at the corner of his lips.  
  
“There is... a shop. A big one, with a lot of toys inside” he said at last, looking very pleased with himself. John looked doubtfully at him and tried to match any place he knew to this description.  
“What color it is?”  
“White!” Well, it wasn't very helpful. John looked at the kid again. He was so young, he couldn't have walked long before he got here, he wasn't really tired.  
“And what were you doing when you got lost?”

“I was playing with Ben, my friend from the school” he cried with a big smile. “He brought his new car and we were playing car racing” the little man almost jumped from the happiness of the sheer memory. “Then I said that I wanted to play hide and seek, and we did.”  
“You seem to like him.”  
“Yes.”  
“Okay, let's see if we can get you home. Which way did you come from?” The doctor asked, closing the door behind him and taking the child's hand in his own.  
“That way, sir” Martin pointed and John turned them in that direction.

 

They started to chat about the boy, his friend Ben, and the things they liked most. When Martin told him about the Sunday they spend in a park, playing superheroes, an idea popped up in his mind.

“Is this park near your house, Martin?”

“Yes! And it's soooooo big!”

“Is there some water?”

“Yes! Big as a lake! But we can't swim there, my dad said it's too dangerous” the disappointment in his voice was serious.

“Your dad is a very wise man” he said and smiled widely. He knew what park did the kid mean. It was near the hospital he worked in. They went in that direction.  
  
It took them almost an hour to get to the place, but once they were there, Martin instantly recognized his street and showed John their house. The door opened and a young, attractive brunette greeted them, crying from happiness when she saw her son. Soon the dad emerged from the inside of the house and fell to his knees, hugging Martin tightly.   
  
John managed to keep his emotions at bay, but the scene was truly touching. The sun began to set and John waved goodbye to the happy family, politely refusing to stay for the dinner. He didn't want to be a trouble. Besides, he was still too heart-broken after Sherlock's disappearance to witness the joy of a lost child returning home.

 

He turned his jacket collar up and walked with slow, measured steps. A slow sonata, Sherlock's favorite, a never-ending metronome in his head. He was almost dancing with the slowly falling night, his mind in some happier place, when he heard a cry from a dark alley. Curiously, he turned in that direction, stepping on sure, steady feet. He saw a long pipe lying in one of the bins and he grasped it in his hand. When John stepped into the alley, he saw two people kicking someone lying on the ground. John cleared his throat loudly, waiting for his soon-to-be audience to turn around and spot him. Ever the soldier.  
  
“Whachya lookin' at?” A slurry voice came from one of his opponents, accompanied by a squeak from the man on the ground.  
“I'm looking as a pair of morons kicks a lying man” John answered coolly, weighing the pipe in his hand. It was made of steel, quite heavy actually, and would serve as a good pole to beat such stupid ideas from their little minds.  
“It's ain't a man. It's a freak. Go away and let us do the job” the taller man grinned looking at his companion, and aimed a harsh kick to the poor lad on the street.  
  
“I think not” John shifted his stance a little, moving his weight to both feet. Hearing the invective that his friend so very often had to endure, was like a red rag to a bull. John stepped forward, waving the pole dangerously, his eyes jumping from one opponent to another. The two rascals took in his pose and the weapon in his hand, and moving away from the pitifully moaning bundle of clothes still lying on the ground, stepped forward, facing John. The doctor watched them get closer, silently thanking them for leaving the poor creature alone, and calculating the time it would take him to get that miserable bastard to the hospital.  
  
When the two scoundrels finally stood in front of him and one of them raised his hand, John didn't have to wait any longer. He quickly blocked the raised hand, stepping forward with his left foot and hit the man across his face with the pipe in the middle of it's length. It wasn't a massive blow without all the necessary leverage, but it managed to sent the man stumbling backwards. John then quickly half-turned and taking a swing with his arm hit the other man, who was just getting ready to jump to him. When the second rascal was lying on the ground and clutching at his face, the first one managed to step closer again, and was greeted with John's tibia making a rapid and powerful contact with his groin. A simple strike with the pipe knocked him out cold. The second man, seeing all this, only whispered 'the fuck?' before he started to frantically scramble away. John let him do so, giving him time to escape. Enough violence for one evening.  
  
Letting go of the pipe, making sure his fingerprints were cleaned from it, with the help of his jacket, John stepped closer to the man on the ground. He was lying in a fetal pose, hands clutching at his stomach and shaking visibly. John kneeled down beside him, trying to untangle him a little from the storm of baggy clothes, a scarf and a cap, that were covering almost the entirety of his damaged body.  
  
“No, please!” Came the raspy voice, filled with tears and pain. John gently untangled his body a little, all the time hushing the quivering man.  
“It's okay, I'm a doctor. I'll take you to...” When his hands took off the warm, wooly cap and the scarf, his breath caught in his throat.  
  
There, lying on the ground in a pitiful mess of his own limbs, almost beaten to death if not for John's quick reaction, was nobody else, but Sherlock Holmes. Long-since-gone Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“What the fuck?” The doctor whispered, looking at the trembling man, still not believing his eyes. Was this another trick of his mind? Or was this a cruel joke? God... What the actual fuck?  
  
But then happiness filled his heart and he had to close his eyes, or he would start crying there and then. He leaned over him, cradling his head gently into his palms and running his shaking fingers through the messy hair.  
“Sherlock?” He whispered, not trusting his voice anymore. He felt the detective stiffen a little, then he saw as those beautiful eyes cracked open and looked at him.  
“Sherlock...” John started, even though he didn't have any idea what to say.   
  
How do you feel? How are you? Where have you been? Thank you for coming back?   
  
Yes, the last one would be good. Great in fact.  
  
“J-john” the man in front of him stuttered while he whispered this one syllable. But it didn't bother the doctor a bit, for it was like a bandage to his battered and cracked heart. He found his friend. At last.  
“Yes, it's me, Sherlock. We have to get you to the hospital, okay? Stay still, I'll call...” He started to take out his mobile, but Sherlock gripped one of his arms painfully hard. He looked down at him and saw the wide-eyed stare and barely moving lips.  
“No... please, no... John, you can't... please... no...” it was like a broken recording, falling without a break from the detective's lips in a quiet and broken whisper. John frowned.  
  
“What?”  
“No... hospitals... please...” The detective closed his eyes, but his painful grip on John's arm didn't cease.  
“Sherlock, you can have an internal bleeding or some organs split open...”  
“John... please...” he moaned loudly and forced his eyes open.  
“Sherlock I can't...”  
“Please...” he huffed, gazing pleadingly at John.  
“Why, Sherlock?” John asked, irritated. All his doctor's instincts were warning him about the risks. He had to get Sherlock to the hospital. His state could be serious...  
“I can't... not now... later... I'll tell you later... please, no hospitals” he moaned again, the pleading look on his face quickly shifting to a haunted one.   
  
John observed this shift with horror for two reasons. Firstly, clearly something paramount happened when Sherlock was out. Secondly, John could feel himself giving in. He could never really deny Sherlock anything. Always following him and his orders. Stupid heart. Oh, but how glad to find the right rhythm again...  
  
“Right. Can you move?” John asked after a longer moment of silence, grabbing Sherlock by his shoulders.  
“No... please... no no no no no...” the detective moaned again and tried to shy away from John. He began to pull himself from his grip, but the doctor stopped him.  
“Shh, Sherlock, wait! I won't take you to the hospital... Sherlock, look at me. Please, look at me” the doctor needed to fight the urge to shake Sherlock a little. He waited patiently for the younger man to look at him and then he continued.  
  
“I'm not taking you to the hospital, not yet” he held up a finger, silencing Sherlock. “You don't want to go there, okay, but I will be the doctor. Got it?” He asked harsher than he intended to, but given the circumstances, he couldn't give a flying fuck. Sherlock seemed to ponder this over in his mind and finally nodded a little.  
“Deal” the detective whispered and attempted to try and stand on his own feet. He swayed rather dramatically, when he managed to get into the upright position, and John hugged him reflexively, taking his weight on his own body and stabilizing the lanky frame. God, was he skinny...  
  
“Whoa, easy” John murmured when he felt the detective sway and shake. “We'll get you to the Baker Street, alright?” John asked, already steering him into the right direction. Sherlock mumbled something incoherently, putting one of his arms over John's shoulders to support himself, while clutching at his side with the other. John grunted when almost all of the body weight was shifted to him, but soon found it rather comforting. He put his right arm around the tall body, hugging it close to his own, the other hand working as a leverage, gripping Sherlock's hand dangling over his left shoulder.   
  
They made their way to 221B gritting their teeth and swearing under their breaths.


	2. Victor's Laboratory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... what happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can guess, why does the tittle sound the way it does? Anyone?

 

**2\. Victor's Laboratory**

When they entered the flat, Sherlock put on a noble fight to stop himself from moaning with relief. He was shaking visibly from pain and extortion, his hair messy and dirty to the point of making the color unrecognizable. John helped him into the living room and seated the skinny body down on the sofa, then kneeled before him.  
  
“Hey, alright?” He asked, looking at his distressed and trembling friend. Sherlock was still wearing his baggy clothes that were covering everything, apart from his face. And the expression he wore only concerned John further. Sherlock was sitting in front of him, eyes wide and unseeing, jaw clenched and brow furrowed. His skin was as pale as ever, and deep hollows under his cheeks only confirmed John's suspicions that wherever he had been, eating was not his priority. John ran his hands up and down Sherlock's knees, trying to bring him back to here and now. The detective jolted and shifted back a little, staring at John, his eyes paler than John remembered them.

“Sorry” the doctor mumbled, seeing Sherlock's reaction.  
“John, I...” he started, voice rough as if he hadn't been using it for a long while, but stopped, lips parted uselessly. He didn't seem to know what to say, so John smiled a little encouragingly, and filled the silence with his own voice.  
“Shh. You don't have to say anything now” he looked into the detective's eyes, then shifted his gaze to his nose, just to settle it on his lips. Very pale lips. “Sherlock, we can talk later, no need to rush” he tried to ignore the soft breath of relief that escaped his friend's lungs.  
“Thank you” the detective whispered voicelessly.  
“Not a problem. It's understandable. But, I need to make sure that you are alright, before I put you into the bed.”  
“I'm fine” came the too quick replay. John scowled at him, continuing.  
“Listen, I'm going to run a bath so you can wash yourself and go to sleep. But now, I want to check you for internal bleeding...”  
  
“No...” Sherlock interrupted him with a quiet sigh. His eyes were wild and breathing ragged. He obviously tried to focus and not to loose his control, but it was quickly slipping out of his grasp. John shifted closer and gently placed both his hands on Sherlock's knees. He noted with a little bit of guilt and anger how Sherlock's features minutely twisted, but he didn't retreat. John didn't know what to think about it.  
“Sherlock” he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I want to put you into the bed warm and comfortable, but if you have any internal bleeding, the bath will increase it. I will not let you anywhere near the bathtub before I'm sure that you are okay.” But Sherlock didn't seem to listen, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He started to sway slightly and John couldn't help but notice it.

God, how John missed him. He wanted to do nothing, but wrap Sherlock in his arms, hold him tightly and weep with joy for finally finding him. Doctor John Watson, ex-soldier, the captain, the man who spent half of his life fighting one man or another, the man who had nerves of steel and the courage of a tiger wanted to crawl all over his friend and cry his heart out from the sheer relief and joy of their reunion.   
  
But he couldn't. Not with Sherlock's reactions, not with the events of this evening. Not with the black void of the past year, the happenings of which he had no idea about.

“Sherlock, please...” he started in a soft and comforting voice. He squeezed his palms lightly on the detective's knees in the attempt of bringing his focus on him. “Let me take care of you” he said pleadingly, observing Sherlock's reactions. The detective seemed unfocused, as if he was battling with something in his mind. His breathing was way too shallow, and his nostrils flared with every inhale. John transferred his hand from Sherlock's knee to his shoulder and the detective jumped up as if burned.  
  
“DON'T TOUCH ME!” He shouted, pushed John hard enough to send him falling back, hitting his head on the edge of the coffee table. Sherlock scrambled away, pushing himself into the backrest of the sofa. He hugged himself with both of his hands and looked at John with wide eyes.  
“Sherlock...” John whispered, but the detective interrupted him.  
“Sorry, sorry... John... No no no no, I didn't want to... I'm sorry...” He started to repeat over an over again, his pose mid-froze between the couch and his doctor, who was massaging the back of his head.  
“Okay, Sherlock... It's okay” he tried to smile, but it came out tight and unnatural. The bump on his head has already started to form and was throbbing painfully. No permanent damage, though.  
  
“John...” Sherlock more moaned than said this one syllable, retreating back to the couch and sitting stiffly on it. “I'm sorry, I didn't want to... I...”  
“Sherlock. It's fine. Could you just... tell me? What happened now? Please?” John asked sitting upright on the floor. He could see just how much Sherlock was trembling. Shaking like a leaf during a maelstrom. The detective appeared to weigh every option he had in his mind, and nodded minutely, as a way of giving John permission to ask. And the doctor did.

“Where have you been? That past year, I mean?” John asked, voice as composed as he could muster. He wasn't sure if he could stand hearing the whole story now, because there must have been a hell of a lot to talk about, but he needed information to help Sherlock.  
“I have been... abducted” the detective swallowed and looked away, his gaze landing on his violin case. John hadn't thrown it away... That means John waited. John waited for him, for Sherlock, to come back. He himself didn't know if he was ever going to come back.   
  
But John waited...

It made Sherlock's heard ache and his head spin. His body seemed to direct itself when he slid down from the couch and crawled his way to John.   
  
It took the doctor only a millisecond to catch up with what Sherlock was doing, but once he did, he opened his arms widely.   
  
An invitation.   
  
For Sherlock.   
  
John wanted him. John waited for him... He cared...

Sherlock launched himself forward, burying his face into the doctor's neck, relishing in the warmth and softness of John's body. The doctor wrapped his arms, cautiously at first, then with renewed sureness, around the skinny and trembling body, feeling the sharp contours of Sherlock's bones, even through many layers of his clothes. Sherlock could have wept from joy, if he hadn't been totally exhausted.   
  
He felt John's arms encircling his shoulders – a comforting weight on his body – and for a moment he forgot about his fear and panic. He sniffed loudly, the smell of spicy aftershave, sweet scent of camomile tea, something sharp like a gunpowder and absolutely delicious aroma of honey shampoo, made their way to his nostrils. It smelled like John. It smelled like home.

Sherlock sobbed loudly, but no tears escaped him. He gripped John's shirt with both hands, nuzzled inside the open collar of the jacket he still had on.  
  
“Sherlock...” John moved one hand to run it gently through the dirty mess on the detective's head. “Shh... it's okay” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of the messy bunch of curls. Damn the dirt, damn everything. He had his friend in his arms and it was all that counted.  
“John” he huffed in the space between the doctor's jacket and shirt.  
“Where have you been?” John asked, rather rhetoric, but the detective answered it nevertheless.  
  
“In Baskerville's.”  
“What?” John breathed out.  
“They kidnapped me from the street... I tried to fight back, but I couldn't... they drugged me with something” he struggled for words, but John didn't interrupt him. To say the truth, he was too shocked to actually say anything. The detective went on.

“When I woke up, they told me I have been abducted. They weren't even trying to cover it up. I was...” his voice croaked a little and Sherlock cleared his throat to aid that. “I was strapped to something that looked like an operating table. I was naked and covered in some sort of blanket, but it only covered that much to keep any sort of dignity” he swallowed.   
  
“They told me... they told me that they needed someone clever for an experiment and since I paid them a visit earlier, they decided that I would make a great specimen” he paused and shifted a little. John was afraid that he would want to twist away from him and, not wanting this to happen in the first place, the doctor tightened his embrace even further. Sherlock didn't seem to pay him attention when he made himself comfortable, leaning into John with almost whole of his body and continuing to speak.

“They infected me with some sort of a virus... blood transmitted, nothing you can catch, don't worry” he tightened his hands that were gripping John's shirt, as if he feared that John would want to move away at the information.  
“I'm not worried, you know” he whispered into Sherlock's messy hair, his embrace never weakening. Sherlock nodded and continued.  
  
“I fell ill and on the second day I must have blacked out. When I woke up, I was still tied, but I felt different. Everything was sharp, I felt everything... My senses were honed... When I opened my eyes, the light was so sharp that it send me squirming and whining into unconsciousness. I... I woke up again and there were people around me... probing and prodding, sticking things into me...” John could feel the full body shudder that made it's way through Sherlock.   
  
“They stabbed me with a needle and the pain was excruciating... It seemed that when all my senses were sharper, I was feeling pain more sharply, too. When I think about it now, it seems logical, but then... I wanted to die and it was solely because they pushed a needle through my skin” He fell silent for a minute. John didn't rush him. There was no need. If there had been any serious damage, Sherlock would be in too much pain to hide it by now. John sighed in relief when the full force of what happened hit him. Sherlock captured, held in Baskerville's lab, experimented on.

Good god...

“Something went wrong with their virus... it started to mutate, it... evolved, in some sense...” Sherlock shifted again, turning his face from John's neck to his shoulder. “I became too weak for them to experiment further. They tried to give me medicine, but it didn't work. Nothing they did worked... Someone came up with the idea that they should... expose me to some kind of radiation” he swallowed, and went stiff. He continued to talk, but his voice was clinical and detached.   
  
“I don't even know what kind of radiation it was... but the dose was enough to kill me. It didn't though...” and with that Sherlock fell silent. John ran his hands over the messy curls again, willing him silently to speak. It didn't seem to work, Sherlock's breath became sharper, quicker, and the doctor could see this blind panic, that had the detective in it's grasp some time ago, claw at him again.  
  
“What happened, Sherlock?” He asked in a soft voice, though he suspected it already. Intense radiation can cause the entire body to fail, internal organs and skin dying while the person is still struggling to live. He wasn't far from the truth.  
“My body...” Sherlock started to tremble again. “...my body was damaged. I needed several transplantations and the doctors there... they proved to be smarter than I thought. It turned out that when they were experimenting with the virus at the very early stage, they took samples of my bodily tissues to culture new organs for comparison... They were quite ready to work on their own when they needed to radiate me, so they just transplanted them into me...”  
  
“God...” John sighed, his arms tightening around Sherlock involuntarily. But the detective didn't appear to mind.  
“...after...after they replaced my kidneys, liver and pancreas, my lungs started to fail. They replaced them, too. Good thing that my heart survived, but...” he shifted uncomfortably, folding himself into a tight ball on John's lap. The doctor brought both his legs around Sherlock's body, shielding him from the world.  
  
“But?”  
  
“...my skin didn't...” at this, Sherlock felt John move a little, and when he looked up at him, he saw John's calculating gaze sweeping over his face.  
“No, John, my face stayed as it was... thank god. It hurt like hell, but they managed to save it...” and god, was Sherlock thankful for this. Had they done what they did to the rest of his body, with his face, he would never even try to come back. He was a monster as it was, he didn't need any more disfigurements. “But the rest... John, I...” he was lost in what he wanted to say. I'm frightened? I'm sorry? I don't want to scare you? Repel you? Everything, probably.

“Shh...” John understood his fears in an instant. He cradled his head in his warm, gentle palms and forced Sherlock to look at him. “I don't care. I don't care how you look like, do you hear me?” His voice was gentle but bearing no protests, and Sherlock couldn't protest, even if he tried. The hope of John still caring about him, the sole thought of John still being there, for him, as his friend... it was all that spurred Sherlock into action.   
  
It was all that he ever wanted to fight for.   
  
If he denied this little thing, he knew that his world would collapse there and then. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. John shouldn't see him, anyway. He would be repulsed... Sherlock was a monster now.   
  
Mutilated, disfigured.   
  
A freak like so many people so often called him.

But there was John. John's eyes looking into his, John's skin on his, his palms on Sherlock's cheeks, his fingers in his hair... There was one, strong thumb caressing his cheekbone and... oh. He had been crying. He hadn't even realized...

“Are you alright?” The doctor asked, his doctor, and Sherlock didn't know what to answer. His whole body was still throbbing painfully from the beating he had received earlier, he was still a repulsive monster, but his heart was a little warmer... Yes, he felt good. Great even. As long as John wouldn't see his scars and Sherlock wouldn't see his disgusted expression...  
  
“Sherlock?”  
“I'm fine...” came the quiet answer.  
“Of course, you are” John smiled gently, softly. Sherlock felt as if he could melt right there and then. “I am asking about everything that happened in that damned place... are all your wounds healed?”

No. Not all. My heart is still broken. I cannot get anywhere near a laboratory or hospital. I can't sleep, and when I try, I have nightmares. I don't eat, because being dead sounds quite appealing...

“It's not appealing to me. It's horrible and I don't want you to die, Sherlock...” came John's whisper and Sherlock blinked. Did he tell this aloud? Oh, God...

“John...”  
“No, shh... it's alright. It's okay” John wrapped his arms around his friend again and sighed heavily. “Is your body healed?” He repeated the question.  
“I think so... well, some of the skin is still healing, but my organs seem fine...”  
“Thank god” John let out a breath of relief. Sherlock felt the urge to clarify.  
  
“John, they hadn't done a good job when... when they transplanted my skin...” he squinted his eyes shut.  
“I don't care, I told you. You are my friend, I don't care” John assured him, stroking his head lovingly, soothing him as if he would a frightened animal.  
“But... I'm repulsive... I...” Sherlock tucked his head out of the reach of John's fingers. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand the affection, the friendship, almost love that John was pouring all over him. If John turned away from him, which he will surely do, seeing the damage, the detective will die from longing. That one simple caress will hunt him till his miserable and lonely end.

“Show me” John demanded, watching Sherlock's eyes go wide with surprise and panic.  
“No!” He almost shouted, suddenly scrambling away, his back hitting the seat of the sofa behind him.  
“No, Sherlock. Show me. And then you will be able to see my reaction, if you don't believe my words...” John propped both of his hands on his knees, trying very hard not to hug himself with them. When Sherlock moved backwards, scared as he was, he bereaved him of his weight and warmth. John didn't want to loose him. Not now, when he had finally found him.  
  
“No...” the detective whispered.  
“Please.”

Sherlock seemed to think it over and over again in his mind. John would find out anyway, sooner or later.

But later sounded better. He could have this little time for himself. For John... Selfish, stupid heart. Naïve traitor.

Before he knew, what was going on, John was kneeling before him, one hand on the side of his face, the other guiding him gently to lie on his back on the floor. He gasped when his shoulder blades met with the hard wood, many layers of clothes not enough to whittle down the sensation. The detective let himself to be laid on his back, one leg curled up to break the vulnerability of the pose.  
“John... what...?”  
“It's okay” the doctor smiled minutely. “I have to check you for the bleeding, remember?” He asked, though they both knew it was a cover. Sherlock allowed him to do what he pleased.

He would loose him sooner or later anyway.

“Tell me if something hurts or if you want me to stop” John added, his hands moving to the hem of Sherlock's sweatshirt. He gently rolled it up, pausing for a second when he heard the other man's sharp intake of breath. When he exposed Sherlock's abdomen, all the way from the waistband of his trousers to his sternum, he looked down.

Sherlock closed his eyes, desperately trying not to cry. Any moment now, any second, and John would walk away from him. He would gasp or cry out with horror. Maybe he would say something... And then he would be gone. And Sherlock would be all alone. Sherlock, the monster. Mutilated freak. Abandoned and left alone to die in his misery...

What Sherlock could not fathom or predict in any way, was a gentle touch of warm hand on his scarred skin. Did John want to torture him now? Did he want to make him beg for John to stay?

Oh he would, he would beg and scream and crawl on the floor, if it was the way to keep him here. But wait, the touch moved... fingers ran over the puckered flesh, over his scars... He moaned pitifully and opened his eyes in surprise. What was John doing?

When Sherlock opened his eyes, John could not help but smile. The silly creature... Yes, the skin was mutilated. Very much so. Bigger and smaller parts of the transplanted tissue were marked with deep and still red scars, indicating the places, where pieces were attached together. The parts varied in the thickness and blood circulation, what gave them the look of some sort of a sick patchwork.   
  
John could tell by the scars on the seams that some were older than others. They must have not been attached at the same time... A few lines were inflamed and bright red, others barely healed. It was simple that when Sherlock escaped he could barely walk like this. John moved his eyes downwards and gasped, seeing a few stitches near Sherlock's left hip, still holding the pieces together. He ran his fingers carefully over one of, what appeared to be, badly healed burn-marks. Sherlock sighed and his body jolted, but he stayed in place.

“Does it still hurt?” John asked in a whisper, not trusting his voice anymore. He wanted to kill them. He felt the overwhelming need to kill every person who did this to Sherlock. He will kill them. Slowly. Methodically...  
“Some of them...” Sherlock had his eyes wide open, but if from fear or surprise, John could no longer tell. He ran his hand gently over the damaged skin and felt Sherlock exhale slowly.  
“I'm going to press a little and I want you to tell me if anything hurts, okay?” He moved his palms gently over freshly-formed bruises.  
“Okay” Sherlock gulped. John did as he had told, pressing gently but efficiently. He soon had Sherlock checked over, and smiled at him, leaning down.  
  
“You're okay, no bleeding as far as I can tell.”  
“Told you” the detective huffed out, but there was no smile or brightness on his face.  
“Okay, now I'm going to run you that bath. You can wait here, I'll come for you” he said, getting to his feet and making his way to the bathroom.   
  
He opened the taps and poured some bathing gel into the tub. Only a little, he didn't want to irritate Sherlock's skin in it's current state. Besides, god knows how many stitches where left on his body. When he finished the preparations, laid out a fresh and ridiculously fluffy towel, and placed all items Sherlock could need on the edge of the tub, he went back to the room. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa again, legs curled to his chest, clothes tugged firmly around his middle.

“Okay, what do you want to sleep in?” John asked, moving to Sherlock's room, which he recently occupied, due to the failure of the roof in his own. He opened Sherlock's drawer, all his clothes kept exactly how he left them, and fished out two sets of buttoned up, long-sleeved pajamas. He showed them to the detective who nodded curtly at the wine-colored ones. He took them and then hauled Sherlock to his feet, steering him to the bathroom.  
  
“Do you want my help?” John asked, once inside.  
“I think I can manage” Sherlock replied tightly, eying the bathtub and John in turns. The doctor nodded.  
 “Don't lock the door and try not to fall asleep. I'll check on you in twenty minutes” and with that he left, leaving Sherlock to wash himself and gather his thoughts.


	3. Wash away

**3\. Wash away**

 

As soon as he heard a loud thud and splattering sound of water, John ran back into the bathroom.  
  
“Sorry... sorry...” Sherlock was lying in the tub trying to get himself into somehow more upright position.   
“You okay?” John asked, stepping toward him with his eyebrows raised.  
“Fine... just... slipped” the detective murmured, his hands slipping when he tried to brace himself on the edge of the tub. John made his way to him and kneeled down beside, helping him to sit.   
  
Only then Sherlock remembered that he was naked and all his mutilated and torn skin was exposed to John's view. He tried to cover himself with his hands, tried to curl into a tight ball, but there was no use. He was too naked to cover his whole body.  
“Hey, shh... Sherlock, look at me” John stopped his struggling with his both hands placed on the detective's arms. He somehow forced him to look into the doctor's face.   
  
“Sherlock...” he started, but the man interrupted him in a bitter tone.  
“Don't John... don't say anything.”  
“You don't even know what I wanted to say!” The doctor replied a little too harsh. He corrected this instantly, his voice returning to the soothing and leveled tone he used earlier.  
“You wanted to say that it's fine and that it's not my fault...” Sherlock shut his eyes, his body started to tremble again. John let go of his hands, resting them on the edge of the tub.  
  
“No...” he waited for the detective to focus on his words. “I didn't want to tell you that it's okay, because I know it isn't. Yes, the skin looks horrible and the level of damage is making me want to kill whoever laid their hands on you” oh John absolutely hated the look of shame crossing Sherlock's face. He knew, however, that only the truth and sincerity could get to the detective right now.   
  
“I will not tell you that it will be better with time, because it won't. There are treatments, plastic surgeries, but...” he held up his hand, when Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. He wasn't done yet.  
  
“No, let me finish. But. The surgery, no matter how brilliantly done, will not make all your scars go away. They are way too deep. And you know that, don't you?” He waited a moment, before he saw a tiny nod from Sherlock, to continue. “The truth is that your body had been severely damaged. It is, in fact, a miracle that you are alive. And you know what? That's all I care for. I don't care about your face, even though it's pretty, I admit” he smiled a little.   
  
“I don't care about the way you look like, I don't care about your weight or how many limbs you have. And you know why? Because I am your friend. And it doesn't matter. What matters is your brilliant mind and your heart, though you try to convince yourself that you don't have one. This is why I...” John stopped, swallowing rapidly. He couldn't say this. He wasn't sure himself... “...that's why I was suffering... why I felt like a dead man when you were gone. I care about you, but not about how you look like. It's just the transport...”  
  
“John...” Sherlock whispered, “you don't understand...”  
“Help me, then. Help me to understand.”  
  
Sherlock just shook his head. He was a freak now. He looked like the Frankenstein Monster. Put together from scarps... from left-overs... Living dead.  
“I can't... You have to believe me, when I say that you don't understand...” he said in a small voice, obviously choked with emotions.  
“Then you will have to believe me, when I say that it doesn't matter. You are here. This is all that counts for me. Got it?” John asked in a deadly serious voice. Sherlock nodded.   
  
He couldn't have this conversation now.   
  
Probably not ever.  
  
“Right. Will you let me help you?” John asked, voice once more soft and gentle. Like liquid honey... Sherlock nodded again and, hesitantly, uncurled himself. John had probably seen most of his scars already. He was still here... maybe he won't be as repulsed to run away?  
  
John lathered his hands in sweet-smelling soap, his own, and proceeded to gently ran them over Sherlock's arms. The scars and disfigured tissue was present here, too, and John couldn't bare the sight without feeling a sharp blade jabbing at his heart. How could they? It must have been torture to endure all this... When he started to lather up Sherlock's back, feeling the detective relaxing just a little, a thought came to his mind.  
  
“Sherlock? When you told me that your senses were heightened by the virus... Did they stay like this after the radiation, or did they come back to normal?”  
“No...” he answered, swallowing dryly. “They are still sharp... even sharper now, outside the laboratory. I can...” he stopped unsure.  
“You can?” John urged him. He was curious, true, but he also wanted to make the detective talk. About anything. He shouldn't be quiet and close himself inside his mind. He had too many dark rooms in there.  
  
“I can hear your heart. The rhythm. I can count it...” Sherlock closed his eyes, looking like he tried to actually count John's heartbeat. The doctor smiled.  
“Amazing...” he poured warm water over Sherlock's back, washing down the soap. “I want to wash your hair, is that okay?” John asked and waited patiently for the answer. Sherlock was hesitating over it for a moment.  
“Yes...” he answered finally, shifting a little forward. John braced his left hand on the edge of the tub behind Sherlock's back.  
  
“Lean back a little. Yes, like that” he poured some water on the messy curls and then massaged some shampoo into them. He could feel as the tension in Sherlock's body slowly fled away... “Okay, I'm going to wash out the shampoo now, but I'll lather you up some more. Still okay?” He got a satisfied hum in return, Sherlock's eyes firmly shut. John smiled, good.  
  
He repeated the process three more times, before he finally got all the dirt out of Sherlock's hair. When he methodically washed out everything that could possibly be stuck on Sherlock's head, he noticed a change in the color. Over the detective's forehead, starting from the center and going all the way over his right eye there was a strand of almost white hair, the length of his messy and obviously neglected fringe. John gasped a little...  
  
“John?” Came Sherlock's confused voice. Did John finally realized how repulsive Sherlock was? Will he leave him now?  
“Sorry... it's just... I wasn't expecting that” John said honestly. He knew that constantly distressed body can act like this, lots of his friends from the army had graying hair already.   
  
But this was... unexpected.   
  
A single, white strand on the top of Sherlock's head. It looked... different. Just that.  
  
“Expecting what?” The detective asked, raising himself and sitting with his back stiff.  
“You have a white strand in your hair...” John reached for a shaving mirror, handing it to Sherlock.  
“Oh...” the doctor could tell that he was surprised.  
“Must be the stress...”  
“...or radiation.” the detective finished.   
  
He dropped the hand clutching the mirror to his side, breathing in sharply. How much more? How much more damage had been done to him?  
  
“It's okay, Sherlock...”  
“But you just...”  
“But I was surprised. That's all” John finished washing his back and chest. He gave the detective a little time to wash his lower parts and then fetched the fluffy towel. He mentioned to Sherlock and, with little help, the detective stood up. John immediately covered him with the towel and rubbed it gently, delicately over his abused skin. Sherlock hissed, when he pulled at one of the still-present stitches.  
“Sorry” John murmured. “I'll take a look at them tomorrow, see if we can get them out.”  
  
When Sherlock was toweled dry and putting on his pajama, facing away from the doctor, John could get a better look on his back. There the situation was worse. There were more stitches, more skin was inflamed and angry-red, painful without any doubt. Good that the pajamas are silk and will cool the heated skin a little. He should probably get some anti-inflammatory ointment on them, too. When Sherlock dressed up, John helped him to the bedroom and lied him down carefully on the mattress. The detective groaned, when his back collided with it, but was too exhausted to even turn around.  
  
“Wait here and don't fall asleep yet” John said and went to search for his medical bag. He returned soon, carrying a medium sized container.  
“Turn on your front for a minute” he said, as he lowered himself next to the detective, who looked at him with questioning and very tired eyes. “I'll put some ointment on your back. Some of the wounds are inflamed and it will help them to heal” he helped Sherlock to tun around. “It will also numb the skin, you won't be in as much pain” he touched the flesh gently.   
  
It was hot, definitely infected then.   
  
There were also some bruises present, the testament of the beating he received in the alley. He smeared the cooling substance over every reddened scar, trying not to rub it in too much. He heard Sherlock hiss once or twice, but otherwise, the detective was silent.   
  
When finished, John looked at his face to find Sherlock already asleep. Well, it was good, really. He could use some sleep, too... The couch didn't look appealing, but he could avoid getting wet if the rain came, and he could be closer to Sherlock if needed. He waited another five minutes before the medicine dried off and gently pulled Sherlock's top back down, over his skinny body. He pulled the covers high carefully and gingerly pushed himself up on the bed. He couldn't, however, put even one foot down on the floor, because something caught his trouser-leg. He looked down to find one of Sherlock's pale hands gripping the material.  
  
“Stay...” Sherlock whispered, his voice sleepy. John turned the possibilities in his mind, though he already knew what he wanted to do. He gently untangled Sherlock's fingers from his trousers and got out of the bed. The detective looked at him, disappointment clear on his face.  
  
“Hey” John ran his hand through Sherlock's white-black hair. “I'm only going to shower. I'll come back here, alright?” He asked and, not waiting for the replay, proceeded to wash himself and change into the bottoms of his pajama.   
  
When he returned, Sherlock was lying on his side, facing John, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. The doctor climbed beside him and under the covers, lying on his back. Not a second later he felt a slight shift and Sherlock's hand wrapped itself around his wrist.  
  
“Thought you were gone...” The detective mumbled sadly.  
“I wouldn't know how” John told him, taking Sherlock's hand in his other and pulling the detective closer, head resting on John's chest.  
“Thank you” the dark haired man sighed barely audible. John circled his back with his left hand and squeezed lightly.  
  
“No need. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.”


	4. Of shadows and monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as it's been pointed out that the formating made the text too long in paragraphs, I split them into smaller parts...
> 
> This one is for jhsdhalr! I've made the text smaller! Happy reading, lovely :)

**4\. Of shadows and monsters**

 

It burned. His skin was on fire, and he couldn't move... All nerve endings frying, burning... He was almost sure that he would smell the sticky, sickly, revolting smell of the burning flesh... well, he would if he could breathe. His lungs weren't working. He was gasping like a fish taken out of water, but no air made its way through his mouth... And the pain. Thousands of thousands of tiny, dull needles stabbing him, tearing his skin...   
  
He could feel the blood seeping from his wounds, he could smell it in the air and taste it on the tip of his tongue. Blood and chemicals. His muscles seized, cramping painfully... He tried to shout, but no sound came out. He desperately tried to free his hands so he could find something to kill himself with... Something cold on his arm... something chilly, like ice... calming his head, cooling his eyelids... God, his eyes were burning, too... Maybe now they would kill him... Just kill him. Is it that much?  
  
Kill me!  
  
Suddenly he was free... But everything was black... thick darkness surrounded him. But he was no longer tied down and... oh.   
  
He could breathe.   
  
He looked around again, the darkness shifting, fading and soon there was a soft glow flooding his sight, calming his eyes. The soft glow, basking him in dimmed, yellow light...  
  
Sherlock looked around, staring wildly at his surroundings. He was no longer in the lab, he was in his own bedroom. Sitting on the bed and gasping lungfuls of air so rapidly, that his vision swayed. He felt something grip him by the wrist, and he jolted painfully, jarring his abused skin with the sudden movement. He whipped his head around prepared to fight for his life with whoever was trying to capture him again.  
  
But there was no one, but John. His good, caring John, who was now looking at him with a frown, moving his lips slowly... Only then Sherlock noticed that his friend was actually saying something. He collapsed down on the bed and curled up on himself, bringing his knees to his chest, hissing when he pulled the not yet healed wounds.   
  
He didn't even know that he was crying, until he felt a pair of careful hands wiping his tears from the corners of his eyes and from his nose. Those hands wandered to his head and shoulders, touching him lightly, stroking his head, the nape of his neck... He cried harder, all the built up emotions finally setting free... He could feel his body shaking, he could hear his own sobbing. But he couldn't bring himself to care. He strained his neck and looked up to see John. He felt the desperate need to grip him in his hands, to cling to him and never let go. John could make things better... If not him, then no one could.  
  
The doctor hushed him gently, still stroking his head and shoulders, letting the detective shift closer. Sherlock quickly wrapped his arms around John's knees and held on as if the doctor was the last thing keeping him alive.   
  
And maybe that was the case? Sherlock knew that if it hadn't been for John, for the promise of John waiting for him at home, the detective would never even try to get out of that place. He would be dead as soon as he had freed himself from the restraints ting him to that table.  
  
They must have fallen asleep like that, because when John opened his eyes again, there was this soft, cold light of dawn seeping through the window and coloring the whole room with its sleepy glow. John looked around himself, feeling that his hand has fallen asleep.   
  
Well, it was really no wonder, for it was twisted under Sherlock's curled up body that was still lying beside him. The detective was sleeping, for once peacefully, on his side, with his knees drawn up to his chest. John was awkwardly curled up behind him, Sherlock's head on John' knees, and the doctor's chest to Sherlock's back. His arm was tucked between his friend and the mattress, and the second hand was wrapped around his middle, hugging Sherlock in a strange manner. John's head was near the small of Sherlock's back, and from this position, the doctor could easily see the scars that lingered there.   
  
They were deep, their edges corrugated and skin around them red with inflammation. He would have to put the antibiotics on them soon, and he sighed when a prospect of forcing Sherlock to bare his skin once again crossed his mind. He could picture how awfully his friend must have felt, he got a glimpse of that, when he was shot. His shoulder was long since healed, but the scar remained, successfully scaring out his girlfriends. None of them liked to touch it when they were intimate, some of them could stand to look at it. It wasn't his only scar, but that fact only made things worse.   
  
It wasn't that he was self-conscious about it, no. For him they were the testament to what he had gone through in the army, the remainder of every adventure, good and bad, he took part in. But for the rest of the society it meant that he was different. For some more than for others... John could picture the reality splayed before the detective. The rejection from the society was inevitable. He wished he could make it better...  
  
Sherlock groaned and shifted a little, successfully taking John away from his pondering. When the taller man moved, John could feel a dull pain making its way through his shoulder, even though the rest of his arm was numb from the lack of circulation. He moved and extracted his limb from under his friend, and sat more upright.   
  
Sherlock slowly, cautiously rolled on his back, gazing at the doctor from the corner of his eye. His head was resting on John's knee, and his hair had fallen around his face, creating strange, dark halo with a white beam going from the center of his head.  
  
“Hello” John smiled gently, attempting to massage some blood into his, now tingling, arm and wincing slightly. Sherlock closed his eyes again.  
“What time is it?” He asked in a raspy and still sleepy voice.   
“Around seven o'clock” he said, leaning back and propping himself on the pillows lying behind his back. God, his muscles hurt from the awkward position... but his heart was warmer, when he remembered what was the cause of his muscles' stiffness.   
  
His friend was back. Sherlock was back. And they had just spent a night together... Well, it wasn't anything adventurous, but John felt the pleasant tingling in his chest nonetheless. He stretched a little and extracted his legs from under Sherlock's head, giving him his pillow instead.   
  
“I have to go to the loo, and I think I can hear that Mrs. Hudson is already awake” he said, seeing the startled and slightly disappointed look on the detective's face. “I should tell her that you are back, or she might have a bit of a shock when she sees you here” John smiled as he saw Sherlock hugging the pillow tightly, while he buried himself under the duvet. The detective nodded and attempted a smile, but it came out more as a grim smirk. The doctor sighed.  
  
“Look, I will just tell her that you're back, then I'll come back here and make you some tea. How does it sound to you?” Sherlock grumbled something into the pillow. “Sorry?”  
“Coffee for me” he repeated it, shifting away from the pillow. John nodded and went out of the bedroom.   
  
Just as he thought, Mrs. Hudson was already awake. She was a little surprised o see him that early, but she greeted him with tea and biscuits nevertheless. John told her everything that happened the day before, and she cried with the relief, that Sherlock came back. John hugged her with a knowing smile – the doctor was well aware that the younger man was like a son to her. And he loved her just as hard, he just didn't show it.   
  
“But, Mrs. Hudson” John started, setting his tea down, “Sherlock has been... wounded” he had to concentrate very hard on what he wanted to say, when he heard the sharp intake of breath from the woman.  
“What happened?” Mrs. Hudson almost whispered, gripping John's arm painfully hard. He swallowed and looked at the table.  
“When he disappeared... he had been kept in a... laboratory, of sorts. They hurt him quite badly. I'm not telling you this to scare you out, or anything, I just want to warn you, that he looks... different in some ways. And he is different than he used to be” he looked up at her.   
  
“It's okay, John, dear. I don't care how he looks like...” she started but John stopped her with a shake of his head.  
“It's not only his appearance... because it's fine. Well, he is scarred... he has many scars on his body, thankfully not on his face, so nothing the clothes won't cover, but... he changed. Mentally. He tries to be brave... but I don't know how much longer he can soldier on...” John shifted his gaze back to the table. His half-empty cup of tea seemed strangely interesting all of sudden. He felt Mrs. Hudson's hand, which was gripping his arm, shift slightly to cover his palm gently, squeezing lightly.   
  
“You can help him, doctor Watson. He trusts you... only you” she said with this soft confidence that was so like her.  
“I don't know... I think that when he will loose his mask, we will see a very broken man...” he looked up and saw that genuine, soft and knowing smile that seemed to be trademarked by Mrs. Hudson.   
“You can help him, doctor. He'll do anything for you... and if it means coming back to his normal self, then he'll do this, too” she squeezed his palm. John nodded, feeling strangely unnerved, finished his tea, and headed back to their rooms.


	5. The Faithful Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some BAMF!John, because I feel like I need it today :)

**5\. The faithful soldier**

 

A soon as he stepped into their living room, John had been flooded with anger. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in his robe and, no doubt, with nothing underneath. His legs were drawn up closely to his chest and his long, thin arms were embracing them tightly. He had his eyes set on the floor, but he was staring into space, not focusing on anything.   
  
But that wasn't what angered John, no. Visibly shaking Sherlock, sitting on the couch and stretching his not-yet-healed wounds was breaking his heart, not making him furious. What did make his own body shake with rage was to cause of the younger man's state, sitting in a chair, John's chair, and toying with his umbrella.   
  
“Good morning, John” Mycroft greeted and John had never felt the urge to punch him stronger. Not up until then.   
“What are you doing here?” The doctor asked through gritted teeth, moving to stand between the chair and sofa, checking for Sherlock with his eyes. The detective was still staring into space, powerful shivers running through his body.   
“Oh, I just came to assure myself that the rumors going around are true” the British Government smiled, what ended in a faithful impression of piranha. John cringed, looking back at Mycroft.  
  
“What rumors?”  
“That my little brother came back from the land of the dead.”  
“Okay, as you can see, he did. So now, you can go” John tried not to lose his temper. He was fisting his palms without ever realizing it. Mycroft just smirked.  
“Or what? You'll punch me?” He stood up and straightened himself.   
“I may, and I will. And you know this” John looked up at him, his stance changing. Sherlock finally focused his eyes on the two men and was mesmerized by the change. John stood there, looking for all words like the soldier, who came straight back from war. His shoulders square, his chin lifted up, legs evenly distributing his weight.   
  
“John...” Mycroft started, resuming his schooled art of playing the bad guy. “I assume that you know nothing about the state of...”  
“Get out” John interrupted him.  
“I will. But firstly... Sherlock?” He turned to the man still present on the sofa, now blinking rapidly. “Have you told John already?” He smirked again. Sherlock opened his eyes wider, looking from Mycroft to John, and then to the floor. “And you should” Mycroft stated, swirling his umbrella. “My brother killed three people, doctor Watson.”  
  
“Get out” John said again, counting to ten in his head. He was going to punch Mycroft in the face. And then kick him. Hard.  
“Three people, doctor. Do you know how much of a mess it is from the criminal point of view? They had cameras inside the lab. All of this is recorded... maybe you want to see the tapes?”   
  
“Get out!” John felt himself explode. He had heard enough. Mycroft shut his mouth and listened, for once in his life. “He killed people in Baskerville's? Well... he had no choice. And you know why? Because his big, scolding brother couldn't be arsed to help him! Either you had the access to the lab's files or you gained it now. I don't fucking care! If you had it, you should have helped Sherlock, not wait and watch, how they experimented on him! If you gained it now, then you must have read everything he'd gone through. You know it was self-preservation, not an act of cruelty! He was fighting for his life!” John raised his voice to the point of shouting, and this, combined with his military stance, seemed to work a little on Sherlock's brother.   
  
“You would have let him die there, wouldn't you? So he would not sniff around your dirty business. Well, now I'm here and I won't let you do anything to him!” John took a step forward, glaring at Mycroft. “And if you think I will be scared of courts and criminal offense, remember that it all happened in a secret lab, a lab that was doing secret and illegal experiments. I can't imagine it going to the court. And if it does, then I will find a way to ruin you and your life!” John paused, letting all of that to sink in. “Now get the hell out of here, before I kick you out, and I swear I will! Get out!” He yelled.   
  
Mycroft looked once at his brother, smirked at him, then at John, and walked out as if nothing happened. John stood in the spot for a long time after his departure. When his breathing came back to normal and his blood stopped boiling, he looked at Sherlock. The detective had his head between his knees, his breaths shallow and his frame unnaturally still. John moved to him and sat down next to his stiff body, trying to find his voice.   
  
“Sherlock...”  
“It's okay...” came the quiet whisper. “If you want...” Sherlock looked up, not at the doctor, but at the floor before him. “If you want to leave... I won't stop you. It's okay...”  
“Sherlock...” John didn't quite follow his train of thoughts. “Sherlock, look at me... hey, look at me” he tried to coax the younger man into looking directly at him, but he shied away from his hands.   
“It's okay...” he whispered again, blinking furiously.  
“And why, pray tell me, would I want to leave?” The doctor asked.   
“Because I'm not only... a monster...” Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, swallowing, his throat clogged. “I'm a murderer...”   
  
The detective expected to hear the squeak of the leather, when John got up from the sofa. He expected the shifting of air, when he moved away from it.   
  
But Sherlock never expected that his heart would break, when he felt the chill of the shifting air against his palms.   
  
He would never suspect how it would hurt him to hear the shifting on his side, followed by silence. He gritted his teeth and hugged his knees harder, eyes still closed. He would be alone from that moment on. John would move out, now that he knew. He would leave him, he had probably already gone to his room to pack his things.   
  
Or maybe he already left? Sherlock couldn't tell, his senses were overwhelmed by the constant pounding of his heart, the heartbeat loud in his ears, chill of the room like ice pins breaking into his oversensitive skin.  
  
“Sherlock, stop it” came John's voice, and the detective jolted, startled. He opened his eyes in surprise.   
  
John left, right? Right? Then why was he kneeling in front of Sherlock? Was he hallucinating already?   
  
“Sherlock, stop thinking... I'm not leaving you. Not now, not until you tell me to” the doctor stated, placing his warm, almost hot hands on Sherlock's ankles. The detective's eyes widened, no hallucination could be that real.   
“You're here...” he whispered, looking straight at the doctor, as if he saw him for the first time.   
“I told you. There's nowhere else I'd rather be” John smiled gently, squeezing his hands a little, then running them up and down Sherlock's pajama-clad shins. He started to shiver again, his body trembling slightly. John let one of his hands slip under the material. The skin he touched was way too hot. He frowned, concerned. “You have a fever again” he extracted his hand from Sherlock's trouser-leg and placed it on his slender arms that were still encircling his knees. He tugged a little, trying to unwind them.   
  
“Come on, you need medication and rest” he gently pulled Sherlock up and steered him toward his room. Once inside, he guided the detective to lay on his front and grabbed the ointment he left on his bedside table the night before.   
“Don't... please” the detective whispered, when John started to slowly roll his pajama top up from his back.   
“I need to put the ointment on your back. If it gets infected, you'll need to go to the hospital, and we both know you'd rather not” John ran his hand soothingly over the younger man's arm, but Sherlock didn't cease his pleading. Only now he did it with wide eyes and trembling lips. John sighed and stopped his hands. The doctor moved a few inches back, sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking at Sherlock with soft, caring eyes.   
  
Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he decided to test it immediately. He placed both hands on the hem of his T-shirt and, making sure that Sherlock is watching him, he pulled it off over his head. The detective was now staring at him, confusion clear on his face.   
“John?” He asked, not really knowing what he wanted to ask. John shook his head.  
“Look at me” he asked, his voice slightly commanding, but full of emotions nonetheless. “Look at me, what do you see?” John asked, looking the detective in the eyes. “No, not only my face, look at me... the whole me.”  
  
And Sherlock did. His gaze swept over John's neck and pectorals, over the slight dusting on his chest, over strong arms... His skin was still a little golden, his muscles still defined, despite years spent without military training. His abdomen was paler than his arms, and muscles there were not as clearly visible, but it was still a beautiful sight. John wasn't a muscular man. But he was far from being flabby. In fact, he was very fit, what was incredibly hard to see when he was wearing his fluffy jumpers.   
  
Ah, John and his jumpers.   
  
At first Sherlock was confused why wouldn't he wear shirts without the additional layer of wool. The detective soon found out, when John complained on one evening about how the cold air made his shoulder ache. Sherlock's gaze traveled there, his eyes fixed on the scar for a split second only, before he moved it to his collarbone. It suddenly became very fascinating, the curve, the slight tension in muscles under the thin skin... Sherlock marveled at the very attractive hollow, between John's clavicle and throat. He licked his lips and shifted his gaze lower, over his chest, lower, lower to John's navel, finding a trace of darker hair that disappeared under the waistband of his jeans.   
  
Even if Sherlock was not an overly sexual creature, he had to admit that he wanted John. In every possible way he could have him. He suddenly realized that he had been attracted to his doctor for a long long time... attracted physically, that is, not only heart and mind. He looked up at the older man's face and saw him smile softly. Did John know how much he wanted to have him? How much he wanted to have him, even if he knew that it was impossible? He was a monster... nobody would want him. Why would John?  
  
“What did you see?” The doctor asked, still smiling softly. Sherlock frowned.  
“I don't understand” the detective blinked a few times.   
“Tell me what did you see.”  
  
“You” he stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole universe. John's smile widened.  
“Me? Really? Not scars, not flesh torn by bullets? No mutilations left by my enemy's knives? Just me?” The doctor smiled again and moved to his previous position on Sherlock's side. This time, when he pulled the detective's top up, he didn't protest.

 

John put the ointment on his palms to warm it up a little. Sherlock was shivering visibly, the fever was high and, with his oversensitive skin, the good doctor didn't want to make him jump at the coldness of the medication. He looked at the scars, some of them barely healed, some not yet.   
“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” He said softly, bringing his hands to Sherlock's back. He ran his fingertips gently over every centimeter of reddened skin, when the substance wore off, he applied it again, and repeated the whole process.   
“Thank you...” Sherlock breathed quietly.  
“No need to. I'm your doctor and your friend...”  
  
“No... thank you for standing up... to Mycroft” the detective tried to half-turn to look at his friend, but even a little movement jarred his wounds in this position. He winced, hissing, and returned to his previous position.  
“As I've said. I'm your friend. I will never let Mycroft have the last word” John smiled, pleased with himself. He really stood up to Mycroft. Hell, only now it dawned on him just how much courage it required... well, it looked like he was still a soldier.  
“You sound like me” Sherlock puffed, grinning a little.   
“Well, someone has to...” he saddened suddenly. “Look, Sherlock... I really want you to get better. Not only physically, but... mentally, too. I... Have you thought about looking for a therapist in the future?”   
  
He hated himself as soon as the question left his lips. Sherlock's eyes widened for a brief second, then he clenched them and stiffened. John tried to backpedal, but when he attempted to grasp the detective's hand, he shifted away and twisted his body, facing away from him.   
  
“Sherlock...” the doctor was at loss of words. He didn't want to hurt his companion in any way... But he knew that if Sherlock kept on going like this, both of them would surely be driven crazy, and soon.   
“No...” the detective's voice was low, but John could hear it anyway. Could hear it's tightness, coldness... almost as if the detective had went numb inside, and this numbness had transferred into his voice. He decided to act, he didn't want to lose Sherlock, his trust. He needed it right now, not only for him, but for them both.  
“I'm sorry...” he placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder, running his thumb over the material covering it. He heard a sniff.   
“What for?” Came a harsh whisper. “I'm a freak. I have always been... You just realized this now. Finally... And you are sending me to find a therapist. Perfectly logical...”  
  
“No!” John almost shouted, and winced at the tone he used. “No...” he repeated again, gentler, softer. “I have never thought about you as a freak, and I won't start now...” he shuffled closer to Sherlock, lying on his side, looking at the back of the younger man's head. “I was afraid, I am afraid that it's too much for you, that maybe you need some help to deal with everything that happened... not because you are a freak, but because you have been through a lot, and it's sometimes good to have someone to help you professionally...”  
  
“I don't... I didn't... I...” Sherlock stuttered.   
“Shh... it's okay” John placed his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder, nuzzling there a little. “If you don't want to, it's fine. It was just a thought, nothing more... I won't force you to do anything” he finished in a low voice, placing one hand on the detective's hip. Sherlock stiffened again, and then twisted around, looking straight into John's eyes.   
  
The doctor didn't know what he was trying to find there, but he seemingly succeeded, for his face lightened a little and he snuffled his way to John, closing the space and wrapping one hesitant and pale arm around his middle. John smiled gently and did the same, but his arm was sure and firm when it closed around the thin waist. He practically finished tending to Sherlock's back anyway, they could cuddle a little.   
  
John smiled tenderly. Cuddle. He had never suspected that Sherlock Holmes would like to cuddle with anyone, let alone him. He ran his hand gingerly up and down his back, feeling the slow spread of warmth through his bloodstream. Looking down, he saw Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, his lips part minimally. God, he had a beautiful mouth... and face. And body. Even now. The doctor shifted his gaze lower, where the material was still bundled up and revealed a small area of the detective's skin. Milky white with red streaks... It looked almost poetic.   
  
Romantic.   
  
Yes, his skin was different now, but to John I was just this. Different. Not less beautiful, not less precious. Just different. He swallowed, feeling himself sinking into his thoughts... He had a thing for Sherlock. A big, fluffy, cuddly thing that sometimes showed it's claws and used them to clench John's insides with an iron grip... and sometimes it was licking with it's fire-like tongue at the base of his spine. Like now.   
  
“John?” Sherlock was looking at him, curious eyes fixed on his face. John looked at him and smiled. That brilliant, wonderful, impossible smile that was meant just for the World's Only Consulting Detective.   
“John, what is it?” The pitch of his voice started to edge on uneasiness again, so John ran his hand over his back again, soothing him.  
“Nothing. It's just... do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He asked, his smile only getting bigger. Sherlock huffed.  
“I'm not.”  
“Yes, you are. Stop arguing with me” John suddenly looked very serious again. “Listen to me. I don't know how, but we'll make everything right again” his voice was so sure... so strong. Sherlock only nodded and closed his eyes, snuffling into John's neck again. He felt safe like this. Home. This was home. John, with his camomile, jumpers, guns, kitten-like smiles... Sherlock didn't know when he had drifted off.


	6. A dark tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is surrendered by darkness...

**6\. A dark tunnel**

 

When he woke up again, it was starting to get dark outside and John was not there. He started panicking for a brief moment, different scenarios of John leaving him flooding his mind, before he heard a soft thud in the kitchen. It was way too late for Mrs. Hudson to wander there, so it must have been John. Sherlock shifted and groaned, injuries still not healed properly, but his doctor, with his ointment and gentle healer's hands was doing miracles. He could stand up on his own without wincing in pain, and that itself was a victory.   
  
He got up and took his dressing gown from the foot of his bed, shrugged it on and walked out of his bedroom. John was in the kitchen, fidgeting with something on the oven. He must have heard Sherlock for he turned around and smiled at him.  
  
“Slept well?” He asked, quickly turning around again and stirring something. Sherlock sniffed, it smelled good. Only now he realized that by some miracle he felt hungry.   
“I feel better” he murmured more to himself that to his friend, as he made his way past John and to the bathroom.   
“Don't disappear for too long, the dinner is nearly finished” John shouted to him, when he heard the soft click of the bathroom door. The detective grumbled something by the way of answer, and John smiled. It was so familiar to the way things had been before...   
  
When the detective finished everything he had to do, he moved to wash his hands. He hissed when the first drops of cool water hit his skin. He was so sensitive now... It felt strange, but he managed to adjust to it... even if just a little. He had loads of time after all, the laboratory routine left him with nothing to do, and he was too distracted and scared to enter his mind palace there. He felt like if his own head had been haunted... it still was.   
  
He couldn't get anything right while he was walking along the palace's corridors. The rooms remained in their place, their contents still present, but Sherlock couldn't bear to enter the palace. The place was gloomy and lonely now. He felt like he had been alone in there... no, not alone. He was alone on his side, while there were undefined monsters on the other.   
  
Two sides of the barricade placed in the center of his mind.   
  
Every time he entered his mind palace now, he felt as if he had been followed by hundreds of evil eyes, eyes belonging to creatures that wanted to hurt him, to kill him. He couldn't walk along his own corridors, because he wasn't able to take a turn or walk into some shadowed space... It was ridiculous! Well, it was when he was here, grounded to reality.   
  
When he tried to sink into his mind... well it wasn't that ridiculous.   
  
Sherlock swore and scrubbed harder at his hands, his skin turning angry red. This was hopeless, no matter how much he would scrub and wash, he would never be able to delete what happened. He would never be able to make his scars disappear... the scars that were now like white cuts and valleys, framed with red, standing out on his pink and irritated skin. He looked up, his eyes boring into their reflections appearing in the mirror placed above the sink.   
  
He was awful.   
  
Disgusting.   
  
He looked closely at his face. Thank god it remained unchanged. His nose, his lips, his eyes... everything in place and unaffected. Praise the Lord for small mercies... Only his hair suffered, he thought a little mournfully, as he eyed the white streak at the top of his head. His fringe suffered, but it would not be that bad. He can always dye them, right? It would not go as easily with the rest of his body.  
  
He took a deep breath and slowly pulled his shirt up, revealing the scarred flesh. It looked ugly. It looked like a monster's flesh. A disgusting creature, the Frankenstein. That's what he was now. A monster. How could John still be there, how could he still care?   
  
Ah, John. Sherlock cared for him dearly... he liked him, the problem was the detective liked him a little too much. Even before all this hell broke loose, Sherlock wanted to be more than just friends... He wished he had done something to bring them together. Now everything was lost, he would never have John Watson in this manner. He was kind and caring, for some impossible reason, but he would always remain his friend, not lover.   
  
Sherlock felt his eyes becoming wet. He looked at his body again, the bunched up shirt revealing his torso. Some of the scars were deeper than others, more pronounced. Some o them were still red. One of them was almost as thick as his finger, the one going from his left arm, under his left pectoral muscle, where it dipped down and went straight to his navel, which was just a small and puckered flesh now, just the place of attachment of three different pieces of his skin. One of the scars, thinner than the rest, but with more ragged edges, still had stitches inside. He would have to get John to help him with their removing.   
  
His gaze shifted lower, where his pajama pants started and three ragged lines disappeared under the waistband. He pulled it down a little, exposing the delicate flesh, like a pale membrane over his muscles. Sherlock knew how he looked below the waist, he had seen this part of himself, but it still made him nauseous, so he didn't strip all the way. In the place where his pubic hair should be, there was a patch of smooth, baby skin, so very delicate and fragile. It looked as if it was divided almost precisely in half by one vertical line, but Sherlock knew that it turned a little to the left later on. It was long, it started at his navel and went almost straight down, down over his groin, to the base of his member.  
  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered the time when they told him that they will have to replace some of the skin on his most delicate and intimate part. There was a girl who took care of him almost daily since he'd gone out of the radiating room. She was kind, with big, dark eyes and soft lips that spoke surprisingly wise things. She told him once that she was there to help him. Others didn't speak of her or to her, she was sort of ignored by them. She was keeping an eye of him when he was unconscious and she would soothe him when he was coming back to his senses. She washed him and fed him when he could eat again, she informed him of what was going to be done to him.   
  
One day she revealed that someone bigger was standing behind her, and that she will help Sherlock to get out of this mess. But firstly, they had to put him together and heal him. Sherlock snorted at that, being in way too much pain to really consider her words.   
  
Then she told him that they would have to make an operation to amputate his penis for it was damaged too badly to leave it. The risks of his body getting infected from it were too high, the odds of losing their experiment along with him were pushing them to just cut his member off, like a piece of rotten meat. They would have done the same if it had come to his fingers or ears...  
  
Sherlock could remember the fear, the cold, blind panic creeping up his spine when he heard it. He could remember the way he trashed and screamed when they tied his legs to the table. He could remember every tear that escaped him, when he was begging the girl to talk them out of this, to make them change their mind. He didn't pay attention to his already patched up skin, he wasn't afraid of pain. He felt as if, by taking away this small piece of him away, they would take the rest of his dignity. He would be castrated, he would never be a man again...  
  
The whole world went black and he woke up some time later, the familiar twitching of muscles noticeable through the haze of anesthetic. He blinked rapidly, eyelids heavy, and looked at the girl sitting near his bed. She was looking at him with a wide smile on her face. He tried to speak, but no words escaped his mouth, only a croaking sound. Just like every other time when he woke up after a surgery. She hurried to his side and placed a gentle hand on his colder one, squeezing tightly. She managed to convince them not to cut away his manhood. They replaced some skin, it would scar, she told him, it would be painful for long months.   
  
But he was still in one piece.   
  
Then she helped him even more. When he was starting to feel better, after long months of captivity, she planned his escape with him. And, one evening, it all went as they planned, except for three dead people. But Sherlock was fighting for his life, he didn't care then. The girl helped him out of the lab and into the woods. She gave him money and clothes and some food to survive next two-three days. He wanted to thank her, but she was already vanishing in the dark, coming back to the base to cover everything up as best as she could. Before he, too, disappeared into the night, he called out for her.   
  
He didn't even know her name.   
  
“I'm Rina” she answered and disappeared, leaving him alone. He put the clothes on, grabbed the backpack containing other things and started marching on. He was weak and exhausted, but he managed to make it to the town and stole a car. He drove as quickly as he dared, thanking whatever deity was still listening to him that the road was empty at this time of night.   
  
He was saved and alive.   
  
He was coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there was an introduction to the OFC I've mentioned earlier. She won't be here for next two chapters or so, and don't panic, the fic will still stay as Johnlockish as possible :)


	7. Tell me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is being honest and gentelman-y. Something begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A casual reminder that I'm not a native speaker and I write in AmE, because this is the one I study. Please, if you see any damage done to the language here tell me, so I can relearn some things :)

**7\. Tell me**

  
 John finished preparing the dinner, which made the whole flat fill with the appealing scent of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. He set everything on the table and waited for the younger man to appear. When he hadn't come within the next 15 minutes, John started to worry. He called out, but, upon receiving no response, he walked to the bathroom. He heard nothing, so he knocked on the door.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
 “It's open, John” came the quiet voice and John grabbed the doorknob.  
  
Sherlock was inside, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, palms turned up. John slowly walked in and toward the detective. He stopped about a foot away from him and, when the younger man remained in his position, he kneeled before him and looked up. The doctor felt his heart clenching and and his own eyes moisturizing in sympathy.  
  
Sherlock was crying. His cheekbones were wet, eyes rimmed red and he was crying silently, defeated. John couldn't bare to look at him passively, so he gripped the detective's hands and squeezed lightly. Sherlock shut his eyes tightly and turned his face away.  
  
“Don't...” he whispered, but John was way past the point of listening to this now. He squeezed harder.  
“Sherlock, talk to me” he asked in a serious tone.  
“What about?”  
“About what is going on in your head. I won't laugh at you, I won't judge you... you know it, don't you?” The doctor asked, running his thumbs over the pale fingers.  
“You can't help me, John... the damage is done” he stated with such grief, that John felt his tears fall down.  
“Sherlock, look at me... please, look at me...”  
  
And Sherlock did, taking in John's expression, his eyes, his tears... His own throat constricted painfully and he stifled a groan that threatened to escape his lips.  
  
“Why, John?” He asked, but the doctor at his feet only blinked, as if asking 'why what?'. Sherlock swallowed, his tongue suddenly feeling like if it was made from rubber, uncomfortable and stiff in his mouth. “Why do you care so much? Why are you still here? Why do you want to... to... repair me, despite everything? Why, John?” He raised his voice a little at the end and winced, when he heard how it had came out. But John only took a deep breath.  
“You want to know? Okay, I will tell you, but Sherlock,” John forced the detective to leave the seemingly fascinating tiles on their bathroom wall and to look at him, “I don't want what I say to change the way we are... because our friendship is very important to me.”  
  
“God, John... what is it?” Sherlock huffed, aiming for annoyed, but failing miserably.  
 “I act the way I act, I do all these things, because I have feelings for you, Sherlock” John started, and seeing the detective open his mouth, he shushed him to let him finish. “No, wait. I need to tell you everything, so you know where you stand” he informed the younger man and he nodded in return, signaling his understanding. John continued. “I know that emotions are not really your area, and that's why I won't force you to act on them, but you have to know...” John made a pause, deciding if he should tell everything.  
  
But when he looked into Sherlock's teary eyes that were now looking at him with that kind of desperate hope, he made up his mind. Enough hiding. “You have to know that I love you” he finished, congratulating himself on the calmness of his voice.  
  
Sherlock blinked rapidly, a few lonely tears escaping him as he took a shaky breath.  
“You don't understand, John...” he answered quietly. Stupid stubbornness. His heart clenched, he knew that John would never want him if he knew just how bad his wounds were.  
  
Not only physical, but also mental.  
  
“You don't understand...” he repeated.  
“Then show me. Sherlock, show me. Help me to understand” John squeezed his hands again and Sherlock felt his emotions overwhelming him. They tried to choke him, to squeeze the air out of his lungs, his eyes watered anew.  
  
With one rapid movement, full of anger and rabid resignation, Sherlock stood up, wincing at the pain jolting through his body. He shoved John a few inches away – the doctor sat on his heels, and watched with his eyes opened wide. The detective started to take off his clothes, first his t-shirt, then the soft silky pajama bottom. He threw them angrily away, the top landing in the sink, bottoms making a wild flight over John's head and into the doorway. He lost his balance a little when he was tugging his feet free from the pajama, and he had to lean back on the edge of the tub again. He panted heavily, eyes closed, trying to calm himself down. John watched, trying not to grab his friend and embrace him tightly. He wanted to wrap his hands, his whole body around Sherlock and never let go.  
  
 “Look at me, John... look at the monster I am” Sherlock was shivering visibly, his oversensitive skin reacting violently to the chill of the tiled walls. John shifted forward, his mouth watering at all the skin laid before his eyes. He rapidly calmed his urges, that was not what it was about. He gulped and looked up. “Look at me. Scars, wounds... I will never be normal, I will never be the man you deserve...” a shaky breath escaped him and the older man shifted another couple of inches. He could place his hands on Sherlock's knees now, but he waited patiently.  
  
“I've always wanted to give you something, John... Something normal, something real. But now? You say that you love me and by God, I love you, too... It's just” another tear escaped the detective's eyes, despite that they were closed. John felt his throat tightening. “It's just that you will see me for real one day... and then you'll leave me. And besides, you deserve something better than me. I'm damaged and... and I don't know how to do relationships. I have never been in a romantic relationship before. Nobody even likes me... why would anybody love me? I've made my hmpf...”  
  
Sherlock found himself unable to finish the sentence, as a pair of hot, soft lips pressed against his own. He tried to pull away, but an insistent hand was keeping him in place, while John's gentle tongue swept tenderly over his bottom lip. Sherlock moaned and it must have startled the doctor, because he pulled away, looking at the detective with wary eyes. The younger man pulled away only slightly, but he could already feel the loss of John's lips, the tightness of the grip he had had on Sherlock's curls moments before. Now his fingers were tangled in Sherlock's hair, but they merely rested there, no tugging or coaxing.  
  
“Sherlock” John started, voice rough. “Please, stop trying to prove me how much I give up by staying with you. I don't give up anything, I gain everything... it's what I want, it's what I need. You, us. Together” he gestured between them. “I need it, I want it... the question is, if you want it, Sherlock? Do you want us, together?” John asked and waited patiently for the detective to answer. Sherlock bit his bottom lip and looked at the floor, seemingly looking for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was choked with emotions, rough and uncertain.  
  
“I want to be with you, but...” he shook his head. “But you have to know that we may never be a normal couple...” he drifted away, not knowing what he wanted to say. John smiled, one of his hands coming up to turn the younger man's face to him.  
“A normal couple? Sherlock, we're both batshit crazy, whatever made you think that I would even want to be a normal couple?” He chuckled lightly, thumb running over one sharp cheekbone.  
  
God, how could this man be so beautiful?  
  
Like a Greek statue.  
  
 “You have to understand one thing, Sherlock. I want to give you what you need, and I want the same. But it has to stay in our comfort zones. If you want, or don't want to do something, all you need to do is to tell me. These are my only two conditions, because I don't care about how you look like. They are simple: first, you don't like something, you tell me, and second, you have to talk to me truthfully. I require nothing more... do you think you could do that?” John asked softly and waited for the reply. Sherlock swallowed again, not really understanding why John wanted him so much, but to tell the truth, Sherlock was past the point of caring. He wanted to be with John, he wanted John to stay here.  
  
He nodded, looking straight into his doctor's blue eyes.  
“Yes. Yes I want to do that... and I... I want to be w-with you, J-john” he stuttered a little when John brought his other palm to the detective's face and just held them there, framing Sherlock's perfect cheekbones, thumbs wiping away the remaining tears.  
  
“Okay, now...” John stood up, still not looking at Sherlock's naked body, though the urge to ram his eyes all over the expanse of his skin was great.  
  
Ever the gentleman.  
  
He gripped one of the towels from the hanger behind the door and threw it over the younger man's shaking shoulders. “Come on, you'll catch a cold” he smiled gently, wrapping Sherlock in the fluffy fabric. He gently pulled him to his feet and steered him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. “Put on your clothes, Lestrade texted me today and asked if he can come for a pint. I think it's time to tell him that you are back” hearing this, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked at John with wild look in his pale eyes.  
  
“I don't want to see... John, I don't... I...” he panted hard, fists tightening on the towel that was still covering him.  
“Sherlock, I'll be here all the time” the doctor walked behind him and wrapped his arms around the lanky body. Oh, their bodies fitted perfectly that way, Sherlock's back against his chest, his perfect bum just over John's...  
  
STOP.  
  
The doctor mentally slapped himself. He wanted Sherlock, he needed him, and he could tell from the slight tremor in the detective's thighs that he wanted John just as much... but not yet. It was all to quick, he needed to take it slower. He wanted to take Sherlock to the bedroom, lay him on the expensive sheets and ravish him until every stupid thought in his head would fly away. He wanted to kiss every inch of his skin, scars and not, he wanted to lick, and suck, and squeeze... but if he did that now, he would be taking advantage of the younger man. His state was still too vulnerable, he was too fragile. They would need to wait a little more.  
  
And for John, it was all fine.  
  
“What are you thinking about?” Came Sherlock's curious, but low voice. John sighed. In for a penny.  
“About us. About you and me... about how the things will be in the future” he heard Sherlock's shuddering intake of breath and waited for the replay.  
“John...”  
“No, wait... It's just that, no matter what you think about yourself, I still find you bloody attractive” and to force his point through, John pressed his hips to Sherlock's bottom, letting him feel the beginnings of his desire that hardened in his trousers. He heard Sherlock swallow loudly and tightened his hold on the younger man. “I want you, dear god, I do... but we won't do anything until you're absolutely sure... I can wait, I will wait. Even forever” John stepped back and the detective turned his head to look at him from the corner of his eye.  
  
John smiled.  
  
“Go, dress up, I'm phoning Lestrade that he should buy one pint more.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, there will be sex scene in the next chapter. Also this one is the last one I have written so far, the next ones are yet to be created. It will go slow on updates, but I didn't want to leave you in the dark themes, so you'll get some fluff at the end :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! <3


	8. Living dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One smutty chapter. I'm not kidding :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sighing_selkie who corrected all my stupid mistakes in the previous chapter - you, my lovely, really are an angel <3 Thank you soooooo much!

**8\. Living dead**

 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had just done the shopping for tonight and walked out on the street, when he got a message. He opened it and stared for a long moment before replaying.

 

Bring more beer, someone will join us – JW  
  
Sure. Do we need do we need anything else? - GL  
  


No. I've made the dinner – JW  
  
Greg smiled. It was unusual for John to invite anyone to join them. They were meeting from time to time since Sherlock's disappearing, but the only other human being to join them so far, was John's sister, who came by one night. Uninvited. Well, if John wanted somebody to join them it was fine with Lestrade. He turned around and walked into the shop again – more beer it is.  
  
When he appeared at 221B some time later, Greg wasn't prepared for the shock that fell over him. He moved up, not bothering to disturb Mrs. Hudson, and walked straight into John's flat.  
  
The doctor was talking to someone, but the other man's voice – for it was without doubt a masculine voice – send Greg's mind reeling. He opened the door and was greeted by a pair of luminous, gray-green eyes.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, John's friend, who disappeared last November. A year ago.  
  
“Hi, Greg” John greeted him, and may have said something else, but Lestrade wasn't listening to him. He was focused only on the lanky man, sitting in his goddamned armchair and looking at him with blank expression.  
“How?” Was the only question Lestrade was capable of asking, while he stood there in the doorway, puzzled as ever.  
“Come in, Greg” John said, moving forward and taking the beer from him. He let it happen, still standing and staring at Sherlock, eyes demanding answers. “It's a long story, Greg. Sit down, have a beer... we'll tell you everything” John offered, going to the kitchen and fishing for glasses.  
  
And they did. By the time they were finished, telling Greg almost the same version as they did to Mrs. Hudson (who came by for a minute, while Greg was still at their place), the Detective Inspector was sitting with his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. After a long moment of silence he shook himself out of his shocked state and gazed at Sherlock with a look of such compassion, that the younger man had to avert his eyes. John's stomach ached – he knew exactly how much Sherlock repelled pitying him.  
  
“Good, that you are alive and kicking, then” Lestrade stated, managing a tight smile. He could imagine just how hellish the whole affair had been to Sherlock and how much it affected him. But his words were true – he was glad to have the young detective back. He was Sherlock's friend after all, even if he was nothing compared to John. “Will you want to work for the Yard again?” he offered, taking one last sip from his beer.  
“I don't know yet” Sherlock started, but then fell silent for a longer moment. Nobody rushed him, the two men waited patiently for the rest. “I think that the amount of excitement and mystery the cases from the Yard provide would be sufficient to keep me busy and mentally fit, but I can't go back to them yet” he finished, glancing at the doctor.  
  
John nodded minutely and offered a more detailed explanation.  
  
“Sherlock is still healing, and I won't let him take any cases until I am absolutely sure that it won't affect his well-being.”  
“That's understandable, John” Lestrade looked briefly at the doctor and then back at Sherlock. “Sherlock, take all the time you need to regenerate and, when you feel that you are ready, phone us. I have a few cases that will surely interest you, and I want you to look at them as soon as you can, but John is right – you have to be well and healthy to do this” he finished and squeezed the empty beer can between his hands.  
  
“Well, I think I should be off. Thank you for the evening, though” he smiled briefly and this time it was natural and honest. “I never thought that I would say this but, it's really nice to see you, Sherlock.”  
“Thank you” the young man answered and both of them went to see Lestrade to the door.  
  
Once they were alone again, John walked up to his room and came back carrying his small emergency medical kit. Sherlock eyed him from his chair, eyes a little sleepy after the full dinner and a pint of beer. He was still almost constantly tired, despite all the sleep he got in the past few days.  
“Go, lie on the bed and I'll check your stitches” John gestured toward Sherlock's room. “I'm almost sure that a few of them can be taken out.”  
  
Sherlock stood up with as much grace as he could muster in his mildly dazed state and headed to the room. He stripped to his pants and climbed on the bed, covering himself with the duvet. John came in some time later, dressed in his sleeping pants and a loose t-shirt. He lowered himself gingerly next to the younger man and opened the kit.  
  
“Do you want some painkiller?” The doctor asked, taking out pliers and small scissors. Sherlock shook his head weakly – it may be a little painful for normal people, and with his heightened senses he would probably feel everything a lot sharper, but he didn't want any more medication than was strictly necessary.  
“Tell me if you change your mind, okay?” John asked, uncovering Sherlock's back. Sherlock hissed at the chill of the room, but relaxed immediately when he felt a pair o gentle, warm hands touching his skin. John prodded a few scars and then shifted his gaze to the silky threads still-present in the tender skin.  
  
Five on his back and all of them could come out.  
  
“Okay, you have five stitches here and all of them are ready to be taken out” John warned him, preparing to do it. Sherlock nodded and whispered a quiet 'get on with it', his fists clenching in the pillow beneath his head, anticipating what was to come.  
  
John had seen the younger man getting tense and had to count in his head to ten not to loose his temper. Whoever made Sherlock behave like this should be introduced to John's left hook.  
  
Repeatedly.  
  
The doctor started to take the stitches out. The procedure being always the same - cut them, grab with pliers, and slowly but steadily pull them out. Sherlock managed to stay silent through all five stitches, though his hands were clenching tightly from time to time.  
“Alright?” John asked, wiping the cleared area with some antiseptic.  
“Yes” the detective confirmed, though his voice was strained.  
“May I take care of the rest of them?” Sherlock nodded at this and tried to relax.  
  
He soon felt John's hands on the duvet that was hunched down over his hips. The doctor pulled it slowly down, knuckles brushing over Sherlock's legs. He exposed their whole length, starting the careful inspection from his feet. Long, elegant and left almost unchanged – only two small scars. John ran his hands gently over Sherlock's legs, looking for swellings or painful places, but he found none. Only at the back of the detective's right thigh there was a deep and still unhealed wound.  
  
“These” he touched the edges with soft pads of his fingers. Sherlock inhaled sharply. “These will have to stay for a few days more” and the detective grumbled something incoherent, shifting on the bed. “Sherlock?” He paused.  
“Yes?”  
“May I take off your pants?”  
  
John got a barely audible 'yes' as an answer, so he grabbed the waistband and carefully tugged the material down. The skin there was as pale as everywhere else, milky-white with just the barest tint of pale pink. John pulled his pants down, over his long legs and feet, taking them off completely. He looked closely at the flesh, touching Sherlock's body with utmost care, his fingertips barely a touch on the hot skin. Sherlock shivered when John placed one hand on each of his cheeks and gently separated them, looking for more scars.  
  
Thank god, the skin there was mostly left intact. There were a few bigger scars covering the younger man's gluteus maximus, but they didn't reach the cleft of his backside. John huffed out a long breath of relief and Sherlock shifted on the bed.  
“John?” He shifted more, twisting his neck and looking at John over his shoulder.  
  
“Sorry, I just... I'm glad that you don't have any stitches there” he said with leveled voice, one hand making a gesture toward the younger man's hips. Sherlock nodded and turned his head back around. John looked at his body, the pale expanse of flesh that was usually covered under soft cotton.  
“Three stitches on your left side and seven on your right, and all of them stay for now” the doctor announced, touching Sherlock's right side gently, hand placed just above his right cheek.  
  
He could feel the full-body-shudder that clawed it's way through Sherlock. The detective grumbled something into the pillow under his head and jerked his left knee higher, spreading his legs a little this way. John swallowed, seeing this beautiful, though scarred body, opening up like this just before his eyes. He scolded himself mentally, bringing back his 'doctor mode' and placed his left hand on the left hipbone and gently turned the detective around.  
  
“Okay, on your back” he huffed out. “I think most stitches from here can be taken out” John checked every one of them. It turned out that he could remove almost all of them, what he did – only five were left in Sherlock's skin. By the time he was finished, Sherlock started to writhe. John frowned at him, after he pulled out the last one out.  
“You sure you don't want any painkillers?” Sherlock shook his head at that, hands gripping the duvet that was bunched up on his lap and over his chest – John pulled it over him to protect his super-sensitive skin from the chill of the room while he proceeded in the direction of Sherlock's knees.  
  
“That's not the pain...” the younger man whispered. John changed his position, shifted closer to him and lied down, so that they were aligned from head to toe, John lying on his side, facing Sherlock. The doctor looked at Sherlock closely and spotted that he was shivering slightly. He placed his hand, palm down, on Sherlock's forehead, trying to measure the temperature. No fever – John frowned again and moved his hand so that it was lying on the younger man's cheek. Sherlock leaned into the touch and closed his eyes.  
  
“Sherlock, what's wrong?” John looked worried, but his worries disappeared as soon as Sherlock moved.  
  
He shifted the hand that was still gripping the duvet away from his hips, showing John what was the problem.  
  
“Oh” the doctor sighed, breathing out with relief and shuddering from the delicious sight in front of him.  
  
Sherlock was hard, his cock resting heavy and full against his abdomen. It was pale, slightly rosy in places, with one almost oval scar. The mark was redder here, probably due to the increased blood flow, but the cut had been smaller, just a fine red line going from the base, up to almost half of the shaft's length and down, to the underside. Someone has done a good job closing the edges, it wasn't as messed as the rest of the incisions.  
  
The detective's thighs were trembling slightly and John felt the urge to cover them with his palms, to caress them until all the trembling would disappear and instead, the pleasurable sparkling would fill Sherlock's body. He looked at the younger man, but Sherlock turned his head to the other side, facing away and averting his gaze.  
  
“Hey... Sherlock listen, it's okay. It's all fine... hey, look at me” he placed one hand under his chin and slowly turned the detective's head back to him. Sherlock's eyes were shining and his expression was that of disgust.  
  
John decided that he had enough and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, drawing his bottom lip between his and sucking on it gently. Sherlock jolted at first, but then leaned into him, drinking in the caress like a starving man would.  
  
John, propped up on his left arm, placed his right gently on one pale thigh and ran it up and down, pressing just right, making Sherlock moan quietly. He ran his fingers over the jutting hipbone, paying attention to the stitches there, massaging the sensitive flesh with only the tips of his fingers. Sherlock brought his hands up, taking hold of John's head, one hand at the back with fingers threaded through his soft, short strands, the other on his cheek, running the pad of his thumb along the cheekbone. John reluctantly broke the kiss, gasping for air.  
  
“Oh god...” he gasped, seeing Sherlock's dazed expression. The detective was clearly filled with pleasure to the brim, his oversensitive skin making it so much easier. He was panting, cheeks flushed, body shuddering, and John hadn't even touched his cock yet. Oh, that was going to be wonderful...  
  
John smiled evilly and leaned down to Sherlock's neck. He started to lick and suck at the pale column, his tongue wriggling into one of the deeper scars there, massaging it, slightly irritating the nerve endings placed there. Sherlock moaned loudly, his body writhing.  
  
“John...” he pleaded, not really knowing what for. “John, please...”  
“Shh... I've got you...” the doctor hushed him, skimming his hand down from his shoulder, lower over his chest and belly, lower to his cock. John took it in his warm hand, rock hard and slick with precome. Sherlock gave a breathy moan, his hand clenching and unclenching in John's hair. He was almost visibly buzzing with anticipation.  
  
“If you want to stop at any point, just say so, okay? No questions, I promise” John whispered into his ear, giving his cock a slow stroke. Sherlock's hips bucked slightly, his lips parted in a silent gasp. John smiled and started to move his hand slowly, squeezing lightly at every upwards move.  
  
He lowered his head again and started to suck and nibble at the younger man's shoulder. He couldn't help himself, Sherlock was just so unearthly beautiful, even with scars. Pale, baby-soft skin, blushed in some places, snow-white in others...  
  
For John it was a perfect piece of art, thin as a sheet of paper... like his own sketchbook. He sucked harder in the hollow of the pale throat evoking a groan inside the detective.  
  
“John... oh god...” Sherlock's hips were canting now, pushing his erection through his doctor's hand, not really synchronized with his own movements, but it was fine... it made Sherlock tremble and moan.  
  
It was perfect.  
  
The doctor couldn't resist any longer and, after a particularly hard bite to the detective's shoulder, tender enough not to hurt his sensitive flesh, he looked down. God, the sight was beautiful. Sherlock's member was long and slim, just like the rest of him, the rosy head pocking out from between his fingers. It was delicious, the way Sherlock trembled, the way his muscles clenched.  
  
John could feel the tightness in his own trousers pressing against the zipper. He paused his ministrations for a moment, opened the zipper and adjusted himself in his pants. This brief moment cleared the younger man's head a little bit and he turned on his side and, using his left hand still gripping the sandy-blond hair, forced the doctor to face him. John bit back what he was sure would be an embarrassing sound, when he looked into those green-gray eyes that were radiating lust.  
  
“John...” Sherlock whispered when John placed his hand on the detective's hip, tugging him closer. “May I?” He asked, looking briefly at John's pants. The doctor nodded and helped the detective to divest him of the soft cotton. He also got rid of his t-shirt and lied back down as naked as Sherlock was.  
  
The younger man licked his lips hungrily, before reaching out and running his fingers over his doctor's chest. John shivered, his cock throbbing painfully. He tugged Sherlock closer again, the skin-on-skin contact making them both moan, breathless with passion. John leaned into his detective and claimed the pale lips, licking and sucking, invading his hot and wet mouth with his tongue.  
  
The detective moaned again, sucking passionately and nibbling at John's own lips and tongue, hands bringing the doctor even closer, hips rubbing his cock against John's. It was messy, it was hot... it was perfect.  
  
Sherlock was drowning in sensations. He could feel every scratch of sheets against his oversensitive skin, the delicious rubbing that went on and on as he shifted restlessly, thrusting against the solid and warm body next to his. He could hear John's every breath, every sigh and small moan. He could feel his doctor's rapid pulse through his own skin...  
  
“John... John John John John...” he started to murmur under his breath, his cock rubbing against the other man's. The doctor moaned hungrily at this, collapsed fully on the bed and tugged Sherlock on top of him, two pale, lanky thighs straddling his waist. The younger man groaned at the shift, pressing their skin together, as closely as he could get.  
  
“God... you're so... ah! So amazing, Sherlock... Oh, god!” John huffed out, when he felt those nimble hands skimming down, down between them, encircling him, squeezing and pulling. His hips thrust upwards, colliding with the detective's, drawing a sharp, startled moan out of him.  
  
Dear god, was it perfect...  
  
Sherlock lifted his head up and John felt that he was drowning in the gray gaze that was now focused only on him, his eyes sparkling and dazed. He rasped a breathy 'come here' and wrapped one hand around Sherlock's head, fingers tangling in the dark, overgrown hair, pulling the man on top of him into a fierce kiss.  
  
Sherlock's fringe tickled John's eyelids, the white strand looking unearthly from the small proximity, just before he closed his eyes. The doctor moved his other hand between them, to the place where the younger man's palm was working in a languid pace and entwined their fingers. Then, he guided both of their hands over their members, squeezing them together, setting up a slow but hard rhythm.  
  
The detective broke the kiss with a cry as John swept his thumb over the tips, smearing more precome around the heads.  
  
It was exquisite, this feeling. The rhythmic slide of their shafts against each other, the pulsing, throbbing pleasure, spreading all the way to their spines, coiling there, unfurling. Sherlock felt overwhelmed, almost drunk on the sensation.  
  
"Oh god... John..." he groaned, his hips bucking on their own accord.   
  
He felt John's other hand shift from his head to his side, fingertips massaging his skin softly, feather-like touches, just before they started to press in all the right places, short fingernails scratching the surface just so. It was wonderful, small jolts of pleasure flowing through his flesh, begging for more.  
  
He lowered himself fully on John, their bodies aligned from chest to hip, their hands still working between them. The doctor found his neck with his lips again and started to suck and nibble playfully, nowhere near the point of hurting.  
  
Soon enough, Sherlock was trembling, John was moaning freely, and both of them were breathless from the rapid respiration, their bodies moving uncontrollably, limbs twitching and fingers clenching. John felt himself balancing on the edge, their joined hands working at a furious pace between them, squeezing and pulling, forcing groans of pleasure from their mouths.  
  
The doctor shifted his hand, the one that had been groping Sherlock's body for the past minutes to the younger man's ass, squeezing on of the pale cheeks. Sherlock moaned wantonly and it almost send John over the edge. He had to pause for a moment, close his eyes and focus. God, he will be over soon... too soon, in his opinion, but Sherlock was so sensual, so goddamned beautiful like this... no wonder he wouldn't last. He breathed deeply in, feeling the tingling in his nether regions, the familiar warmth spreading through his whole body.  
  
John shifted the hand from the side of Sherlock's ass to the crack between the two round cheeks. He moved his finger down, listening to the stifled moans and groans coming from the beautiful lips placed near his ear. He moved the finger lower still, resting it against the small hole that was clenching rhythmically, to the tempo of their movements.  
  
“Jooohn...” Sherlock cried obscenely into his ear and John, making a few little circles over the pink, delicate flesh, pushed his finger inside, as far as it would go. The detective jolted and cried out, throwing his head back, eyes shut and mouth slack.  
  
The picture of Sherlock exposed like this, breath caught in his throat and eyes tightly shut, hands fisting in the sheets near John's shoulders... That did the doctor in. He groaned something resembling “Sherlock”, arching off the bed and throwing his own head back.  
  
He came with an unexpected force, blacking out for a few seconds, even though it felt almost like forever. When he came back to himself his mind focused on two things: Sherlock was still hard and he was unnaturally still over him, panting hard but seemingly frozen on the spot.  
  
“Sherlock?” John breathed, dazed after his orgasm and confused at the detective's state. “Sherlock...”  
“Stop... John... you, you have to... please” the younger man collapsed on top of John, his forehead resting on John's shoulder. One pale hand traveled to the doctor's wrist, encircling it and squeezing tightly, almost like a falcon's claws.  
  
“Sher...” John started, but fell silent. The detective tugged at his hand slightly, moving the finger that was still buried inside of him, what resulted in him tensing further.  
“Stop, please... John...” it was a broken whisper, breathed into his collarbone, and John obeyed, taking his finger out and placing his hand flat on the bed. Sherlock jolted when he extracted the digit, but didn't move himself from John.  
  
The doctor felt that he had to do something, anything. Letting go of the detective's still-mostly-hard cock, he wrapped both arms around the tall body, running his fingertips along Sherlock's spine in a soft caress.  
  
“Sorry... I couldn't...” the younger man started to mumble into John's shoulder. He started to shift his position, and soon he was lying on his side, facing John with his eyes closed. John turned to his side as well, listening to the soft and broken rumbling, trying to make any sense of it.  
  
Why was Sherlock apologizing?  
  
“Shh... it's okay, I told you to say stop if you needed to” John cradled his fingers through the messy mop on his friends head and Sherlock leaned into the touch. “You don't have to apologize, there's nothing to be sorry for” he said softly, feeling one of Sherlock's hands moving on the covers, inching closer to his chest. He smiled and took the hand in his own, feeling the limb trembling with tension.  
  
“But I wanted to... do this. With you” Sherlock mumbled, eyes opening minimally, looking down at their feet. “I'm sorry... it was... it was just too much” Sherlock shifted uneasily, squeezing his doctor's hand with his own, as if afraid that the older man could disappear.  
“It's okay... it's fine” John squeezed back, smiling minimally. “Do you want me to take care of this?” He asked, pointing down to Sherlock's groin, where his still mostly erect cock was resting.  
  
The detective seemed to ponder this for a moment, then he gave a small nod. John smiled wider and whispered to the tall man.  
“Turn on your back” but Sherlock shook his head at this.  
“Can we... like this? Just your hand?” The detective asked shyly, closing his eyes again. John shifted closer.  
  
“Of course. Come 'ere” he pushed one of his hands under Sherlock's head, drawing him closer and embracing him with his arm. The other one, still gripping the younger man's hand, shifted higher and placed the slim palm on his own neck, pressing in just so.  
  
And indication to stay.  
  
As soon as Sherlock started to relax a little in his arms John started to move. He placed his free hand on the detective's hip, massaging slowly but deeply, relaxing the tense muscles there. Sherlock huffed a small 'John' into his neck, shifting even closer.  
  
The doctor turned his head just so, placing a sweet kiss on the detective's pale lips. Sherlock opened himself up the moment John introduced his tongue and he moaned at the wet heat of that clever mouth.  
  
Only when Sherlock was a boneless mess of quivering lust from the kissing alone, the good doctor took hold of his member again. Sherlock's thighs trembled, a small whine escaping his lips between feverish kisses. John started to move his hand and Sherlock cried out, arching a little toward the doctor's body.  
  
“John... Jooohn...” he moaned helplessly, hips moving into the rhythm. John sucked on his tongue, biting on it gently, making Sherlock squirm.  
  
The detective was panting and moaning regularly now, body shivering and hands clenching in John's short hair.  
“Open your eyes” he commanded and, after a moment, Sherlock did, trying to focus his gaze on the doctor, though it was clearly difficult.  
“John... Oh, god...” Sherlock moaned and John sped up his hand, adding a twist at every upward stroke. The younger man bucked, voice failing him as he rumbled 'yes, god... John... there, oh god...'.  
  
“God, you're so beautiful... Come on, come for me” John lunged forward to steal one, heated kiss. He pulled away soon, he wanted to see the most beautiful spectacle in the whole world.  
“Sherlock, keep your eyes open and come for me... I want to see it” he groaned when Sherlock obeyed, opening his eyes, looking straight into John's blue gaze. He tensed, lips forming a beautiful 'oh' and started to come, hips jerking and thighs shifting. He tried to fight the pleasure a little longer, tried not to close his eyes. When he couldn't hold it any longer, he let his eyelids fall down and he gave a sharp cry.  
  
John moaned loudly, the sight before him was enough to make his already spent member twitch slightly with interest. He lunged forward, resting his head in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in the detective's exquisite smell. Something clinic, something spicy... but above all of that the pure scent of Sherlock, and sex, and the faint indication of John's own scent lingering on the trembling skin.  
  
Soon, Sherlock stopped trembling and panting, his breathing came back to normal. They shifted their position a little and, entwined in each other's arms, drifted off to sleep. Just before that happened, Sherlock could feel a warm hand sneaking down over his body. A moment later the covers had been pulled over both of them, and he himself had been wrapped in a protecting cocoon of John's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now this story will get slow on updates. Because the real life is getting in the way and I can't promise anything. Well, apart from the fact that I like this verse and I will continue this story... I have big plans for it. 
> 
> Big hugs and if you have any suggestions, don't hesitate to write :)


	9. Resembling something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some BAMF!John and cow!Sally, because I feel like it. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments. Sorry for the delay - the real life has been very demanding lately.

**9\. Resembling something  
**

Coming back to something resembling normalcy took them a few weeks – as far as one can talk about normalcy and our boys. Sherlock started to eat regularly for John's sake, the good doctor trying to do everything to bring Sherlock back from the side of famished to slightly malnourished. The detective tried to protest at first, but he finally gave in, not wanting to upset his doctor. His skin healed nicely and he was finally free of infections, his body gained a few pounds, and Sherlock himself was a little more confident.   
  
They have fallen into a quiet, unwritten routine – John will check Sherlock's scars every evening, now more out of the pure need to worship the lanky body rather than make sure if they are okay, then the touching would lead to groping and kissing. They explored all possibilities of hand and blow jobs, and it appeared that the detective had developed something of a kink toward John's hands – the doctor stroking and caressing him was his favorite way to die the _petite mort_.   
  
Sherlock started to take cases again – he managed to convince John that he was feeling a lot better – and solved a few of Lestrade's cold ones. But finally he announced that he was ready to take a real case and the criminals seemed to wait for this, for the next day after stating this to Lestrade, a case happened.   
  
Now they were standing in the middle of an old, dusty living room, Lestrade talking about something with Anderson, and John watching the scene quietly. Sherlock was in heaven, a triple homicide, all different locations, every one of them in rooms locked from the inside. The scene provided everything the detective needed to finally feel himself again, to forget about the horrors he'd endured before.   
  
John looked at him with soft, but proud eyes. Sherlock was in his element again, it made his whole presence change. He held himself straight, his shoulders squared and back pulled tight, but he had his usual fluidity of movements, that certain momentum that was typical to him. John sighed, he knew that Sherlock wasn't alright yet. It was a long journey, this path before their eyes, and John wasn't sure if he could help Sherlock any more than he already did.   
  
While the detective was walking proudly, passing back and forth next to the cold corpse, he looked as though nothing's changed. But the doctor could see the slight sway of his hips, the testament of his wounds, he could see how Sherlock discretely tugged the sleeves of the brown jacket – John's brown jacket, borrowed to prevent him from catching cold in the cold air – just to make sure it hides the subtle pink-white lines starting at his wrists. The older man's heart clenched, the picture of his dear friend, his lover, the man he admires quite openly, looking that broken still... it was almost too much for John. He wanted Sherlock to come back to his old self, to be the pompous git he had always been.   
  
Before John could even start to formulate any sensible plan, though, Sherlock snapped at Lestrade and, quite possibly at half of the yarders who happened to be around. The doctor marched up to him quickly, standing only a few inches away.   
  
“What's going on?” He asked casually, though he could feel the upcoming storm in his bones. Sherlock swirled around, looking at him for a moment, the piercing stare making John's heart stutter.  
“This murderer... he's someone with an occultic background, John. We are looking for a madman and a sorcerer in one person. Oh, it's gonna be so much fun! Lestrade!” Sherlock twisted around in search of the Detective Inspector.   
  
“We'll need photos of the scene, high-resolution photos of every symbol you can find in here, post mortem expertise of the corpse, though I doubt that she was murdered in any unusual way... John!” He almost shouted, turning back again. “What would you say?”   
  
The doctor shrugged and got to his knees, looking closely at the dead body.   
“I think she bled out. She has her wrists cut open, two small wounds, one on each wrist. It must have been a long trip to hell, though. The second cut looks like it was made later, the blood is not very crusted around its edge” John stood up again, looking at Sherlock. The detective nodded to him and turned around, quickly heading in the direction of the door. John followed him, keeping a short distance between them, instinctively watching for Sherlock.  
  
The close proximity allowed him to hear Sally's nasty comment about Sherlock's hair, though, and it stopped him in his tracks.   
“What did you say?” He turned his head toward her, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. She didn't even appear to have conscience. Not in that moment, anyway.   
“I said that the freak's hairstyle is finally corresponding with his freakish nature” she had the audacity to actually _smirk_. John stepped forward angrily, his fist clenching and unclenching.  
  
Here's the thing about Captain John Watson. He would never hit a woman. Even such an evil woman as Sally.  
  
But he could tell her in a few not so pretty words what he thinks of her and her opinions. Sherlock's hairstyle, his hair color, be it white, dark brown or green, for god's sake, is nobody's business, no matter if it was done on purpose or not.   
  
The doctor leaned forward, a few harsh and definitely not nice words were already clawing their way up his throat, but he was stopped by a shriek coming from the corridor, just outside the room.   
  
When John stumbled into the darkened corridor, he caught a sight of tall, dark man, fumbling frantically with his clothing, standing not far away, just in the next room.   
  
Sherlock!   
  
He jumped to the door, quickly grabbing for the knob, when a deep, but somehow breathy baritone stopped him.   
“Don't, John! Stay where you are!”   
“Sherlock?”  
“Just stay there!” The detective shouted back, still tugging at his clothing. He took off the jacket and started to unbutton the shirt, only to rip it off angrily, throwing it back and quickly stepping out of the room. Only then did John notice that Sherlock's clothes, lying haphazardly at the floor behind him, were surrounded by a thin smoke.   
  
He looked up at the detective who was still fidgeting with the rest of his clothes, examining every centimeter of his trousers and shoes.   
“What the...?”  
“Acid. He had a trap set inside this room in case anyone was looking for evidence... John, is there anything left on my clothes?” Sherlock asked, jaw set and eyes searching.   
“Let me see, just... wait. Sherlock!” John stilled him, placing both hands on his shoulders. The detective blinked at him a few times, as if seeing him there for the first time.   
  
“Stop moving and let me check, okay?” He asked, turning the tall man around slowly and examining every centimeter of his body and clothes.   
“It's okay, there's nothing more. You're quite lucky it didn't reach your face...”  
“I'm higher than average, had it been you...” the detective fell silent, biting his lips. The realization dawned on him with the force of a speeding train.   
“It's okay” the doctor squeezed his hands gently but firmly. “I'm okay. And you are, too.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and looked behind himself. The clothes were still smoking slightly, the acid burning holes in them. The whole front of his shirt was ruined, as well as better part of John's jacket.   
“Looks like I've ruined your clothes...” he started, but the doctor shushed him.   
“It's fine. Come on, let them take care of the scene. Can we go home and wait for the photos to arrive?” John asked hopefully. Sherlock nodded.   
  
As soon as John turned around to leave the godforsaken place, he stopped again. The whole team of the yarders were looking at them with horror in their widely-opened eyes.  
“What the hell is this?” Donnovan pointed her finger in their general direction and John could feel the blood flowing from his face.   
  
“I can see that the freak's changed not only his hair but got a tattoo, too” she was smirking again. That viper-like smirk that made John want to bite her head off. He moved one step closer, feeling Sherlock shifting behind him.   
  
“Listen to me you little piece of shit!” John stepped yet another step closer and was now standing within the arm reach of Donovan. “The fact that you are stupid like a fucking oyster doesn't give you the right humiliate others! He's the most intelligent man in this room, and you are still casting a slur on him out of jealousy! He's doing your job ten times better than any of you will ever do and what you give him instead? No 'thank you', no good words! You are calling him names and try to insult him as much as possible, just for the fun of it!”   
  
John took a deep breath, he heard Sherlock gasp and then give out a small whimper behind him. He know that he should probably stop here, but he couldn't. Didn't want to.   
  
“But the freak...” Donovan started, but the ex-soldier would have none of it.   
“HIS NAME IS SHERLOCK! And it's Mr. Holmes for you, you fucking idiots! Why are you calling him freak? Because he's smarter than you? Because he's acting the way he is? Have you ever thought why is he acting like this? Because he has to work with a bunch of imbeciles like you! Only complete morons would cast insults at people who'd been through such hell!”   
  
When John took another deep breath, he could feel one, slender hand wrapping around his bicep, squeezing lightly.   
“John... don't” came a quiet whisper, but John just blinked and continued, his voice quieter, almost icy in the tone.  
“Don't what, Sherlock? I can't stand them calling you names and throwing insults at you. Not when I know what you've been through...” he shook his head, blinking a few more times. He turned back to Sally, who seemed to be frozen to the spot.   
  
“He was injured, you cow. He was held captive and tortured, because none of you has half of brains necessary to do your job. You didn't want to work harder on finding him? Here is the result!” John finally turned around and looked properly at Sherlock. He eyed the pale expanse of his chest first, subconsciously looking for any burns. When he didn't find any, he shifted his gaze to Sherlock's face.   
  
The detective was as pale as the wall behind him, hie eyes wide and jaws clenched. He was stubbornly looking at some distant point, leveled with John's chest.   
  
The doctor stepped to him, shrugging off his own jacket, and threw it over his friend's shoulders. Sherlock took the hint and put his hands through the sleeves, zipped the clothing up and tugged it a little to make it fit better. It was too short and to broad in shoulders, but it was warm, and soft, and smelled like John.   
  
When the detective had finally raised his eyes, he was greeted with John's calm, but still somehow worried face. The doctor walked up to him and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips, murmuring a quiet “it's okay”.   
  
The silence that accompanied them to the door was full of quiet guilt and stunned amazement. When the door closed behind them, just before they flagged down a cab, John could hear Lestrade's shouting muffled by the front door.


	10. Little elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sherlock's mind get looped on something, it's hard to follow his logic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff, because i feel like it :) Enjoy!

**10\. Little elf**

 

Sherlock was quiet all the way to the Baker Street. John didn't even attempt to break the silence that was hanging like a heavy fog inside the cab. They paid, they got out and into the flat.   
  
Sherlock went to his bedroom.  
  
John went to make some tea.   
  
They didn't speak of it then. The life went on, just as if nothing happened... Sherlock worked on the case, though at home. He said he caught a cold and preferred to stay inside for the duration of time. His doctor let him, leaving antibiotics and paracetamol on the tabletop in the kitchen when he left for work.   
  
And if John had seen Sherlock looking at him with something soft and curious in his eyes, he never mentioned it.   
  
It was four days to Christmas when their calm, almost normal life flew out of the window. It was the first time when he felt so helpless after Sherlock's disappearing a year earlier.   
  
John came back from a cafe he'd gone to earlier. He had spent a lovely time with Mary, a petite woman with strong character and dyed, blond hair. He met her by accident, they had quite literary run into each other at the hospital he was working in. The meeting resulted in Mary's skirt getting splashed with coffee she was holding, what was the first reason John wanted to make it up to her.   
  
The second reason for the meeting was more complicated – Sherlock. Well, John was in a foul mood that day, thinking about Sherlock and what happened at the Yard earlier. He was buried so deeply in his thoughts that he ran into Mary with a truly terrible expression on his face. When he started to apologize, the girl asked him what was he thinking about so deeply, because it must have been something serious. He told her that he had a problem with his friend and neither him, nor his therapist didn't know what to do.   
  
She smiled, she said that she had been studying psychology, that she can work as a therapist, too. He smiled back, told her that he was sick about any kind of therapy, but he would listen, if she had any advices to give.   
  
They went to a cafe, small, quiet one, with good coffee for a reasonable price. They had a great evening, though John was thinking about Sherlock all the time. Mary had a few useful tips, but she insisted that John would introduce her to his friend on the next meeting. She wanted to help him, if only a little. When John asked her “why?”, she just shrugged and said with a smile “I just like this job, helping people”.   
  
When the doctor came back home, it was far past 10:00 p.m. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, so John went to take a shower, sending a text to his lover.   
  
_I'm home. Will you be back for a late dinner? -JW_

 

When he emerged half an hour later, his skin still damp and steamy, he looked around the flat. Wherever Sherlock's gone, he had taken his mobile with him. His wallet was still at the coffee table, where he left it yesterday's evening, but the cash was missing. John smiled, his mind producing a cute and frankly preposterous image of Sherlock doing the shopping. Then his thought wandered to the Christmas Eve that was in 4 days and an idea came to him.   
  
He wandered down to the basement and picked up an old cardboard box he'd found there earlier. It was full of Christmas lights, colorful stars and other holiday decorations. John grinned, imaging the surprise in Sherlock's eyes if he walked into a fully-decorated flat. With that thought in his mind John set to work, his vocal cords humming carols on their own accord.   
  
It was way past 3 a.m. when John sent the detective a message for the upteenth time. He still hadn't got even one text back, and that started to bother him. He had the whole flat decorated, complete with a little red hat Billy was wearing and soft, glittering boa thrown over the cow skull on the wall.   
  
_Sherlock, just tell me you are ok – JW_

 

He started to pace in the living room, when a quiet knocking to the door startled him out of his thoughts. He moved there quickly, opened the door and paused. At the threshold, there was a small, skinny girl looking at him with her big brown eyes.   
“John?” She asked, rising her eyebrows hopefully.   
“Yes, who are you?” He asked, still standing in the doorway, holding the doorknob with one hand.   
“It's Sherlock. He needs you, sir” she stuck her hand down into the front pocket of her jacket, too thin, John noticed, and fished something out.   
  
Sherlock's mobile.  
  
“I have his phone. I've read the texts. He needs you” she squeaked again, looking back at John, presenting him the phone. John took it, put it into his trousers and grabbed the jacket.   
“Lead the way” he told her, shutting the door behind them.   
  
The walk took them almost half an hour, though they were wandering mostly in Baker Street's closest neighborhood.   
“It's here” she said in a low voice, opening the door for him. The room they walked into was old and dusty, mainly unfurnished. There were two single beds in two different corners, one small bedside table and a rug that was so old and worn out that it looked like queen Victoria's knights may had walked over it.   
  
The doctor stepped closer to one of the beds when he spotted a dark figure bundled up there, covered with a thin blanket. He sat on the edge, looked down and then back up at the girl.   
“He was calling your name, sir. In his dreams” she perched on the edge as well, her small hand running over Sherlock's shoulder. The man under the blanket shivered and curled up further.   
“What happened?” John asked, anger mixing with curiosity and overwhelming relief.   
“He said that he couldn't sleep at home. He came here” she stood up. “I think he's sick, he has a fever and he's mumbling something constantly, sir.”  
“God, Sherlock...” John looked at him again.   
  
The detective tensed slightly, then half-turned around, one eye peering at John. He hissed a quiet “go away” and turned back, attempting to tug the blanket higher over his shoulders.   
“Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?” John leaned forward and grabbed one lanky arm, trying to turn the detective around. The younger man hissed and groaned, but turned on his back, eyes closed and jaw set tight.   
  
The doctor huffed an irritated sound, anger filling him further, and took Sherlock's pulse and temperature with his hands. The heart rate was far to fast, the fever to high.   
“Why didn't you answer my texts?”   
“Why should I?” The detective had the audacity to shrug his shoulders.   
“Because I was fucking dying there, waiting for any signal from you, you idiot!” John hissed in a harsh tone. Sherlock opened his eyes and it was the first time since what seemed like forever when he had seen that icy look. It caused him to shiver and back off a few inches.   
  
“Why would you care?” Sherlock asked, propping himself on both hands, trying to shift higher up the bed. His arms were too weak, though, and he failed miserably.   
“What?” The doctor couldn't believe what he's heard.   
“Why would you care for me when you were out? You should go to that girl of yours, _doctor,_ and leave me be. I won't die of cold, and even if I do, it won't matter! One monster less for the planet, isn't it a good thing?” He asked miserably, turning his face to the wall.   
  
John blinked a few times, still not getting what Sherlock was saying. Girl? Date?   
  
What date?!  
  
He was dating Sherlock, for god's sake, they were lovers, and John didn't even think about looking for anyone else!   
“Sherlock, what the hell you are talking about?” John asked because he really was at loss.   
“Don't play stupid, John... I'm talking about the girl you went to meet this evening” he grumbled to the wall. A fit of cough seized him at the end and he needed a few moments to calm his body down. John's eyes widened in understanding and he cursed himself for being an idiot.   
  
“She wasn't my date...” he said softly, placing one hand on Sherlock's arm. The detective shrugged it away.  
“Don't lie to me.”  
“I'm not! It's the truth, she wasn't my date, she probably wasn't interested in romancing me at all...” John tried to catch his arm again. He needed Sherlock, he needed him like the air he was breathing.  
  
The detective raised his eyes to him, regarding him with a cold stare.   
“Then who was she, _doctor_?” He spat, eyes hurt and lips set tight.   
“She's a therapist. I ran into her in the hospital, we chatted, I wanted to take her out for a coffee because I've spilled the one she had in her hand while we've met. She wanted to help me, hearing that my therapist was unsuccessful” the doctor explained in a tired voice. Bu the time he finished, Sherlock had his gaze fixed on some far point above his head. John reached out for his hand and this time the detective let him take it.   
  
A good sign, John marveled.   
  
“Listen, there's no-one else for me. It's only you, Sherlock” John's hand traveled to the detective's face and turned it toward him. “Only you.”  
“John...” Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes and nuzzling John's palm like an overgrown cat.   
“I'm sorry...” he breathed keeping his eyes shut.  
“It's fine... Come home, please. You need antibiotic and something for fever, you're hot as a furnace” the doctor stood up. He helped Sherlock to his feet as well.   
  
“Can you walk?” He asked, looking at the miserably trembling man, barely standing on his own feet.   
“I think so” Sherlock rasped, in-between another coughing fit. John held him upright when his body threatened to double over and helped him into his own jacket. He looked around the room in search of something more to help him with keeping Sherlock warm, but the only warm thing left was the thin blanket still lying on top of the bed.   
“Can I take this?” He asked the young girl who was still sitting on the other bed. He had briefly wondered if it had been her only protection from cold, what made his heart ache. But when she stood he could see another, smartly folded blanket lying behind her. She nodded.  
“Yes, take it” she confirmed his suspicions and John didn't waste any more time, wrapping Sherlock quickly with it and steering him out of the tiny room.   
  
They managed to flag down a cab and get to Baker Street in no time. Sherlock was shivering violently through the whole ride home, his breathing raspy and shallow. As soon as they got into their flat, he was pushed into his bedroom and down on his bed, under the covers. John gave him only a moment to change into his pajamas. The shower could wait.   
  
The doctor wandered to the kitchen, made some tea and quickly warmed the dinner he prepared earlier, giving both to Sherlock along with a handful of pills. The detective grumbled and argued about eating, but he finally gave up and shoveled almost half of his portion. Satisfied, john let him rest, going back to the kitchen to clean the left-overs. When he was finished, he let himself back to the bedroom and changed into a pair of soft bottoms. He joined Sherlock under the covers, smiling softly when two lanky arms wrapped around him and a black and white mop of hair pressed to his chest.


	11. Soft carols part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay something new, because I haven't updated in far too long. Well, the real life got between me and this fic and I had to take care of it. Anyway, short but sweet, first part, because it will be longer soon. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**11\. Soft carols  
**

When they both woke up it was already afternoon. The sun was shining through the gap in curtains and the wind was blowing snow on the window.  
  
John shifted, feeling entirely too hot under the covers, just to feel the full length of his lover's body curled up around him. He opened his eyes and looked at the detective.  
“Hey” he smiled warmly, bringing one hand to ruffle through Sherlock's curls. The detective grumbled and buried further under the covers. John huffed out a laugh and placed his hand on the younger man's forehead.  
  
The temperature slightly raised but no fever. Good.  
  
He ran his hands along Sherlock's body under the duvet, one palm tracing his shoulder and arm, the other traveling over his spine and down to rest at one of his buttocks. The detective's head jerked upwards and he opened his eyes to look at his doctor.  
  
They stared at each other for a moment, then Sherlock lowered his head back, pressing his cheek to John's warm chest. He broke the silence after a few minutes.  
  
“John, I... I'm sorry” he whispered, tightening his hold on John's torso. The doctor squeezed him back, leaning forward and kissing the top of his head.  
“It's fine. I'm not angry anymore...” he lied back down and proceeded to run his hands over the lanky body, caressing him and lulling him back to sleep. Sherlock mumbled something more before his exhaustion and the cold got better of him, and he drifted off.  
  
The detective woke up some time later. He shifted in the bed, his mind instantly registering John's absence. He sat up, leaning softly against the headboard. God, his head hurt, and he was still cold... He huffed, looking around. The sun has already set and the world behind the window was dark and chilly.  
  
Sherlock took the duvet and wrapped himself in it, crawling out of the bed and heading to the living room. Sure enough, John was there.  
  
“Hey, feeling better?” The doctor smiled, seeing his partner's sleepy and puffy eyes. Sherlock squinted at the mantelpiece.  
“What fresh hell is this?” He grumbled, pointing at the decorations and the happy smile on Billy's skinless face. John looked in the direction of the skull, now wearing the red Christmas hat.  
“Oh, we still have three days till Christmas, I wanted to bring the magic here a bit... Do you like it?” John asked with a smile that only got bigger when he saw Sherlock wrinkling his nose at the colorful decorations.  
  
“Really, John? Does this flat have to look like one of those stupid shop windows?” He mumbled, but walked to his chair and flopped down on it. The doctor's smile turned to grin when he imagined Sherlock himself, wearing a pair of antlers and sitting there, still wrapped in the duvet like a giant caterpillar. The detective caught him grinning and glowered at him, so the good doctor shook his head and went to the kitchen to make some tea.  
  
Thank god, everything was coming back to normal.  
  
They spent the last days before holidays in a pretty domesticated routine, John cooking and Sherlock shouting abuse at the telly. On the Christmas Eve morning, John woke up to Sherlock nuzzling to him, looking like a giant cat. He turned round and lifted the younger man's chin to kiss him properly.  
  
They parted when they both became breathless. John felt lightheaded, and when he felt a pair of hands going to his waistband and sneaking past it, he could only moan in approval.  
  
Sherlock leaned in again, running his lips over the doctors throat, what made John shiver and throw his head further back, exposing more of the skin. The detective latched onto it like a starving man, kissing, licking and nipping, his hands working frantically to pull John's pajama bottoms down.  
  
After a brief struggle and a little help from the doctor, he managed to pull the garment down to his thighs, quickly wrapping one hand around John's length, the other traveling to his buttock, squeezing tightly.  
  
John bucked his hips, feeling the pale, spidery hand closing around him. God, the feeling of Sherlock's hands on his body would never get old.  
“John...” the rich baritone rumbled, sending shivers down the doctor's spine. He opened his eyes and gazed into Sherlock's gray orbs. It was intoxicating.  
“John” Sherlock whispered and the doctor couldn't take anymore. He tackled the detective down and climbed atop of him, all the time kissing him hungrily.  
  
The smaller man lifted himself a little, using that moment to pull Sherlock's boxers down, revealing his arousal. The detective moaned low in his throat when the cool air of the room hit his heated flesh.  
  
“Sherlock...” John whispered into his ear. “Tell me what you want... Tell me what you want me to do to you...” The doctor licked the shell of his ear, ending the sentence with a long suck to his earlobe. Sherlock's back arched off the bed, eyes closing and mouth falling open.  
“John... I...” His mind seemed to go offline. He opened his eyes, meeting the doctor's lust-addled gaze.  
“Come on, what do you want me to do?” John prompted, running his hands along Sherlock's sides, his mouth going to one of the scars, only licking at first, just to suck and bite softly a few seconds later. The skin was healed and insensitive in many places, but in some of them it was even more sensitive than normally. John used it shamelessly to his advantage.  
  
Sherlock whimpered. He was so hard it hurt and all of his blood had flown south. How could he formulate a single, coherent thought, let alone a whole sentence? He pushed one hand through John's short hair, while the other grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers.  
  
“John” he whispered. The doctor gave him a challenging look, and Sherlock swallowed audibly.  
“Suck me... Please John” he closed his eyes, his cheeks burning bright red. John shifted above him, leaning forward and capturing Sherlock's lips in a sweet, soft kiss.  
“Hold tight” he whispered against Sherlock's plush lips, squeezing his hand lightly and scooting down between the detective's legs.  
  
Sherlock whimpered at the first contact. John was right, he had to hold tight.


	12. Merry Christmas!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas chapter

It was already an early afternoon when they finally managed to untangle themselves from their nest of pillows and duvet. John went to the kitchen to prepare the Christmas dinner, leaving Sherlock with his laptop.   
  
“John! We've got mail!” The detective announced, his voice slightly harsh and genuinely annoyed. John raised his eyebrows, peeking from the kitchen to look at the detective.   
  
“We?”   
“Yes, we. Look” the dark haired man pointed at the screen. “To Doctor John Watson and Mister Sherlock Holmes” the detective rolled his eyes. John wandered closer to the laptop and leaned a little to read the email. Sherlock took the opportunity presented to him by John leaning over his shoulder, and kissed the doctor's exposed throat.   
  
“Sherlock, wait. I want to read this... Sherlock” John didn't know if he wanted to giggle or moan, when the detective's clever tongue started to tickle the skin just under the jaw.   
“Mmm... John, leave it” Sherlock murmured, puffing at the delicate flesh and causing goose bumps to raise.   
“Sherlock, stop!” John patted him halfheartedly on his shoulder. “Looks like we're invited to your mother's house for... a ball?” He looked at Sherlock questioningly. The detective just rolled his eyes and grumbled something.   
  
“Sorry, what?”  
“A bunch of idiots drinking and dancing in our family's estate. Dull. We could stay here and do our own celebrations.... I could take care of you, John...” He started to mouth at John's neck again, so the doctor lifted himself up and headed back to the kitchen.   
  
“Oh, I don't know, Sherlock... Maybe we should go? I think I should meet your family at some point, don't you?” John asked, stirring something red in the pot.  
“You've already met Mycroft. Do you really want to meet the rest of them?” Sherlock spat the name of his brother as if it was a poison.   
“Fair point. But I really like to know my enemy, if that's the case” John turned around and poured some oil on the pan. Sherlock grumbled a quiet 'I bet we'll regret this' and went back to typing something on his website.   
  
“Oh, and by the way” John emerged from the kitchen, a spoon in his hand, pointing at the detective, who was looking at him curiously. “I invited a few people here for tonight, I expect you to behave” he waved the spoon dangerously and the detective huffed.   
“Why on earth? I don't like the prospect of sharing this quiet evening with anyone else than you, John” Sherlock growled, facing the screen once again.  
  
“Because it's Christmas, and we won't leave anyone on their own. Besides, you owe that to one of them” John turned around and walked back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock wondering what he meant.   
  
The preparations for the Christmas dinner took them surprisingly little time. When the dinner itself was finished and put on the table, the guests started to come. Sherlock scrunched his nose seeing people coming in through their door. There was Greg with Molly, wishing them Merry Christmas (with the DI apologizing for the incident at the yard), Mrs. Hudson carrying a pie and, surprisingly, Mycroft with his ever-present Anthea (Sherlock hoped that they wouldn't stay for too long).   
  
It seemed that everyone arrived, but John was still looking around and through the window, as if waiting for someone.   
“Are we waiting for anyone?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward and looking at the empty, snowy street over John's shoulder.   
“Yes, someone's still missing. But I don't think we should wait... She'll come here, eventually” John said, turning away from the window and looking at Sherlock just in time to see a strange glimpse in his stormy eyes.   
  
“What's wrong?” He asked, concerned.   
“Nothing.”  
“Sherlock... Hey, it's your colleague, not mine” John forced him to look up. “Don't be jealous, it's not any of my girlfriends” he kissed him softly, chastely. Sherlock hummed quietly and nodded when they broke apart.   
  
“Shall we?” The doctor asked, tugging him in the table's direction. Everyone was already seated, with Greg pouring the wine and Mrs. Hudson putting different dishes on the plates. The boys joined them quietly and let themselves be carried out by small talk and wine-induced laughter.   
  
An hour or two later a quiet knocking was heard and John moved from his seat to open the door. He smiled widely, seeing the newcomer and walked them both inside. Sherlock frowned seeing him, but he grinned cheerfully when he saw who the guest was. He moved from his chair and made his way to the little girl, hugging her tightly. John only smiled. He couldn't not invite the little girl who helped him find his mad detective earlier.  
  
“Natasha agreed to come for the dinner. I thought that she could stay for the night, what do you think?” But seeing the happiness in the detective's eyes, John already knew the answer. They wandered to the table together, Natasha smiling shyly at everyone.

 

When John pointed at her seat she just shook her head and walked to Sherlock. She whispered something into his ear and they both went to the small Christmas tree John had set up earlier. Everyone watched as she took out several small boxes from inside her jacket and placed them under the green branches of the tree. Only when all the boxes were out and Natasha came back to the table did John wonder where did she get the money from. The wrapping paper on the boxes looked expensive, even if the boxes themselves were small.   
  
John looked up questioningly at Sherlock, but the smooth bastard was only grinning widely, eyes cheerful. He must have given her the money to buy them. John beamed. They all sat down and started to eat again, cheering loudly and singing carols (well, Sherlock was sulking and throwing biting comments every time when someone started a carol, but after the third bottle of wine he, too, started to sing).   
  
When the night fell for good and everyone had enough to eat and drink, Sherlock stood and nodded at Natasha. When the girl cheerfully jumped off the chair and ran to the tree, he looked at other guests.   
“In the country she comes from, the presents are given on 24th of December, just after the dinner” he looked at the little girl, who was happily reading all the tags attached to various boxes and started to bring them to the table. She gave everyone everything with their name on it, gathering a few boxes herself (John looked to that, since no one else knew about her coming).

 

When everyone opened their boxes, John looked around. Lestrade was joking with Molly about something they got from Mycroft, apparently, because John couldn't recognize the wrapping. Mycroft was touching the umbrella he got from Sherlock with utmost care, while Anthea immersed herself in her shiny new phone, obviously Mycroft's doing, if the pleased smile was anything to go by. Mrs. Hudson was saying something to laughing Greg, pointing at the pattern on John's new, fluffy jumper and Greg almost spilled his wine, he was laughing so hard.   
  
But there was no sign of Sherlock, so John excused himself from the table and walked to the next room. He stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock half kneeling on the floor, an unwrapped and opened box before him.   
  
“Sher...” he started but the voice failed him, when the detective looked up at him, eyes filled with tears. John swallowed, thinking fast. What happened? He knew the box the detective opened was from him, he knew what was inside.   
  
“John...” the younger man whispered and blinked rapidly, looking down again, caressing the black charcoal material he held between his fingers. The doctor swallowed and made one uncertain step toward the detective. He lowered himself on one knee, kneeling next to Sherlock.   
  
“I thought... well” he started, not really knowing what to say. The younger man looked at him. “I thought that you could use it, you know... the last one got lost somewhere when you... when you were away. I thought that perhaps you could come back to your job, but to do this, you'll need something more than my jacket, and...” his rambling was cut off abruptly, when Sherlock leaped forward and brought their lips together.   
  
“This.... is... the most... thoughtful... and.... beautiful.... gift... John...” He managed to gasp between kisses, pressing his lips to John's like he couldn't get enough. “Thank you” he whispered at last. John smiled.   
“Okay, put it on, I want to see if it fits... You've lost a lot of weight, you know. We must check if it's the right size” the doctor grinned when Sherlock shrugged it on. He knew the detective looked ravishing in his old coat. He looked even better in this one.   
  
The fabric was softer, a little more delicate, but it was also thicker, it would be ideal for the winter weather. At the bottom of the box there was also a dark blue scarf. Sherlock tied it around his neck and straightened the lapels.   
  
John swallowed thickly. God, he wanted to do all sorts of naughty things to Sherlock dressed like this. Especially when the younger man turned around to show everyone his gift, what appeared to be a great opportunity for John to watch his, ekhm... backside, moving seductively under the thick material.   
  
Much later, when everyone went home, and Natasha wandered up to John's old bedroom (they managed to fix the ceiling some time before Christmas and kept the bedroom as a spare one), the detective and his blogger finished the opened bottle of wine. They sat in the kitchen, giggling madly at Sherlock's impersonation of Anderson. John looked at the younger man closely, once again caught in his naughty thoughts.   
  
It wasn't really John's fault, it was just that Sherlock was a very sensual creature, with a perfect mind and no less perfect body (even with all the scars that were still there). The doctor watched closely as the younger man licked his lips and moved from his place to stand before John, who was still sitting on his chair, though with his side to the table.   
  
The detective stood still for a while, then lowered himself gracefully between John's knees and placed his hands around the doctor's middle, hugging him awkwardly. The older man could feel him bury his face in his soft jumper and smiled, cradling delicate fingers through Sherlock's hair. The detective positively purred and shifted away a little, angling his face and looking straight into John's eyes. The doctor could see something odd shining in them and furrowed his brow.   
  
“What is it, Sherlock?” He asked quietly. The detective just shook his head slowly and cast his eyes down.   
“I... I love you, John. I've loved you for a long time now, I think... But I think I didn't show you quite enough how much you mean to me... and...” he swallowed and looked up. “What happened last time... Well, I just think I'm too paranoid that you'll find someone else...” He looked back down and John couldn't help but hold his face in both hands and force him to look back at the doctor.   
“I love you, Sherlock” he stated seriously. The detective nodded.   
“I know. I just forget it sometimes...”   
“I know you do. But you have to get that through your thick skull. I love you and there's no one else for me, understood?” John asked, running his fingers carefully through Sherlock's hair. The detective nodded again.   
  
“John, I... I wanted to ask you something...” He shifted a little and fished for something in his pocket. John's eyes widened when the realization dawned at him.   
“I, Sherlock Holmes, want to ask you, John Hamish Watson, to be my husband, for better and for worse, in sickness and health. Will you make me the honor of marrying me?” He finished with trembling voice and looked up with hopeful eyes.   
  
John chocked on a sob and pounced on Sherlock, tackling him too the floor and kissing him senseless. When the detective finally managed to free himself from under the enamored doctor, he opened the box, presenting it to his beloved John. The older man looked inside. There, on a black velvet, were resting two rings, one gold and one silver, both with a black stripe going around the middle. John looked questioningly at the detective, who smiled and took the silver one out.   
“You've always told me that silver color reminds you of my eyes... But I thought that we should have something of a greater value than silver, so I picked up white gold for you” he explained, grinning. John just blinked.   
  
“This stripe” Sherlock pointed the black ring “it's obsidian – a stone that is believed to protect and heal, especially depression”.   
“It's beautiful” John whispered, lifting his hand for the detective to put the ring on. When Sherlock slid the ring on his finger he grabbed the box and took out the second ring.   
“Classic gold?” He lifted his eyebrows at the younger man. Sherlock was nothing if not oriental in his tastes, and picking up more sophisticated white gold for John and “plebeian” yellow one for himself sounded unbelievable. The detective blushed and cast his eyes down.   
“Well, it... reminds me of your hair” he looked shyly at John, eyes darting to his golden hair and back to his eyes. The doctor smiled, took the detective's hand and put the ring on his finger.   
  
“I do” he whispered and proceeded to kiss Sherlock stupid, grinning like a madman.   
  
For once in his life, Sherlock fully agreed with John's plan.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you had to wait for that one for so long. The life's got in the way, and when I finished it it was already nearing Christmas, so I thought I would just post it now, to get everyone interested in the holiday's spirit.   
> I may add a few more chapters, but let's face it, the story ends here and everything that I could add to this one would be just for fun and sexytimes. 
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone and thank you for staying with me!


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